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A    SEVENTEENTH 

CENTURY 

ANTHOLOGY 


WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

ALICE    MEYNELL 


H.    M.    CALDWELL     COMPANY 
BOSTON  NEW  YORK 


Introduction 

A  habit  has  prevailed  among  the  less 
studious  readers^  of  connecting  the  poets  of 
the  later  seventeenth  century  luith  those  of 
the  early  eighteenth.  There  is  a  common 
impression  that  the  ' '  Restoration  "  had  al- 
ready put  on  the  perruque,  raised  the  heel^ 
and  practised  the  strut.  But  it  was  not  so. 
The  long  locks  were  arranged  by  a  French 
coiffeur,  but  they  grew  where  they  were 
curled.  Not  to  carry  the  slight  parable  too 
far,  there  was  abimdant  nature  in  the  poetry 
of  that  splendid  time,  nature  even  over- 
abundant, and  amid  the  ''"conceits'"  which 
the  playful  and  impassioned  poets  practised 
with  all  ingenuity  and  artifice,  there  lived 
a  wild  sweetness  ofnatm"^  —something  wilder 
and  more  natural,  more  rapturous  and  unre- 
strained, than  the  spirit  of  the  simpler  Eliza- 
bethans. 

The  truth  is  that  no  two  ages  of  English 
poetry  are  so  unlike,  so  completely  divided, 
so  suddenly  severed,  as  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury and  the  eighteenth.     The  difference  and 


2047309 


the  suddenness  are  the  strangest  of  all  facts 
in  the  history  of  our  great  literature.  It 
was  a  change  that  took  place  precisely  at  the 
turn  of  the  century.  If  we  older  readers  had 
kept  the  childish  habit  of  making  a  visual 
image — a  kind  of  figure  in  the  mind's  eye — 
we  should  see  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury draw  in  as  the  closing  of  a  shutter  and  a 
sudden  exclusion  of  the  sky.  The  seventee^ith 
century  had  rapture,  nature,  spirituality, 
and  light;  the  eighteenth  had  the  lack  of 
those  high  characters  and  signs  of  poetry. 
The  poets  who  came  nearest  to  the  closing 
of  the  shutter  are  those  on  whom  the 
light  of  poetry  is  most  radiant  and  most 
7varm — the  mystics  Vaughan  and  Traherne 
wrote  on  the  verge  of  the  dull  and  artificial 
night  within  the  house  of  literature;  they 
died  in  the  light  of  genius.  But  it  is  not 
these  mystics  only  who  so  shine.  Lovelace 
the  cavalier,  Cowley  the  wit,  Marvell  the 
Puritan  sang  and  shone;  I  think  there  is  not 
one  of  their  age — their  great  three-quarters 
of  a  century — who  had  not  this  heavenly 
quality  of  spirit  and  light.  Of  all  the  great 
company  Dry  den  had  the  least  share;  he 
was  most  like  to  the  poets  of  the  age  then  to 
come,  hut  in  him  too  the  old  and  fresh  inspira- 
tion lives — lives  even  thougJi  dying;  in  him 
it  is  not  dead.     A  nd  if  a  foreshadowing  of 


the  eighteenth  century  appears,  as  an  omen, 
here  and  there  in  the  blank  verse  of  Miltofi, 
yet  the  Milton  of  the  lyrics,  the  Milton  of 
*'  Lycidas''\  is  himself  the  majestic  spirit  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  its  very  monarch, 
dominant  poet,  and  representative. 

How  the  eighteenth  century  usually  mis- 
interpreted and  occasionally  7nishandled  the 
seventeenth,  may  he  seen  in  one  interesting 
example.  Here  is  Pope^s  borrowing  of  this 
couplet  of  Ben  Jonson's: — 

"  What  beckoning  ghost,  besprent  with  April  dew. 
Hails  me  so  solemnly  to  yonder  yew  ?" 

Pope  opens  his  07ily  tender  and  impassioned 
poem  with  this : — 

"  What  beckoning  ghost  along  the  moonlight  shade 
Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade  ?" 

This  couplet,  the  beginning  of  the  ''Elegy 
on  an  Unfortunate  Lady ",  has  a  false  ele- 
gance, a  trivial  polish,  but  the  solemnity  and 
freshness  of  the  older  poet  is  as  it  were  put 
to  death. 

Thus  far  I  have  considered  the  seventeenth- 
century  poetry  at  its  sudden  close.  Its  open- 
inff  was  gradual.  There  was  abruptness 
at  the  end,  but  there  was  development  at  the 
beginning.  The  Elisabethan  genius  changed 
slowly  and  did  not  die.      The  change  is  so 


s/ow  and  so  beautiful  that  I  have  included 
in  this  collection  a  certain  munher  of  poets 
ivhose  breasts  S7velled  with  the  two  ages,  the 
two  voices  of  our  poetry.  In  regard  to  date 
I  must  take  some  latitude;  for  though  the 
earlier  poets  of  this  book  lived  longer  in  the 
seventee?ith  century  than  in  the  sixteenth^ 
they  are  in  part  virtually  Elizabethan ^  but 
ripe  Elizabethans.  Ben  Jonson  is  one  of 
these,  so  is  Donne.  If  zve  take  Cowley, 
Crashaw,  Vaughan,  Lovelace,  and  the  Mil- 
ton of  '^  Lycidas^''  as  purely  and  eiitirely 
seventeenth-century  poets,  we  find  the  differ- 
ence betwee?i  them  and  Donne,  between  them 
and  Ben  Jonson.  Herrick  has  the  Eliza- 
be  than  freshness  in  his  "  Corinna^s  Going  a- 
Maying^\  but  in  the  sudden  lovely  phrase, 
''Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage  1^''  he  is  seven- 
teenth century.  That  phrase  is  something 
richer.  It  is  the  rich  quality  that  is  so  dis- 
tinctive of  this  later  age.  Rich  grew  over- 
sweet  and  over-mellow  7iow  and  then,  in 
Crashaw^s  exqttisite  verse ;  the  beauty  grew 
to  a  too-conscious  glory.  ''  Fair  and  flagrant 
things  "  —  Crashaw^s  own  brilliant  phrase 
describes  the  bright  excess  of  this  wonderful 
poetry.  But  readers  have  been  too  much 
afraid  of  the  ' '  conceits "  of  that  age,  and 
critics  have  been  too  much  shocked.  The 
conceits    are    almost    ail  perfectly  poetical, 


rapturous  in  spite  of  artifice.  At  the  end 
oj  accounts,  the  sei^enteenth-ce^itury  conceit 
is  a  far  saner  thing  than  the  eighteenth- 
century  '^  rage''— the  ^*  noble  rage''  into 
zvhich  the  eighteenth  century  poet  strove  to 
lash  himself,  in  vain.  He  it  7i'as,  and  he 
only,  who  put  the  stran's  volnntarily  into  his 
hail' —cry  his  pardon! — into  his  periii'ig. 

The  Elizabethan  poetry  is  the  apple- 
blossom,  fine  and  fragrant,  the  seventeenth 
century  the  apple,  fragrant  and  rich.  The 
change  from  the  sixteenth  century  to  the 
seventeenth  is  a  process,  ivhile  that  from 
the  seventeenth  to  the  eighteenth  is  a  catas- 
trophe. 

ALICE  ME  Y NELL. 


Contents 


Page 


John  Donne  (1573-1631) 

This  Happy  Dream      -         _         -         -  i 

Death  -------  3 

Hymn  to  God  the  Father     -         -         -  5 

The  Funeral          -         -         _         _         -  ■j 

Daybreak -  9 

Richard  Barnefield  (1574-1627)— 

The  Nightingale          -         -         -         -  11 

Ben  Jonson  (i573?-i637)— 

Charis'  Triumph 13 

Jealousy        ------  15 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H.          -         -  16 

H^'mn  to  Diana  -         -         -         -         -  17 

On  my  First  Daughter         -         -         -  18 

Echo's  Lament  for  Narcissus       -         -  19 
An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy,  a  Child 

of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Chapel    -         -  20 

The  Noble  Balm 22 

Thomas  Dekker  (i57o?-i64i  ?) — 

Lullaby 25 

Sweet  Content      -         -         -         -         -  26 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Thomas  Heywood  (d.  1650?) — 

Good-morrow       -         -         -         -         -     29 

John  Fletcher  (1579-1625)— 

Invocation  to  Sleep      -        -        -        -     31 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher— 

"I  Died  True"    -----     33 

Francis  Beaumont  (i  584-1616) — 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey      35 

William     DruxMmond     of     Hawthornden 
( 1 585- 1649)— 

Song- — "  Phoebus,  Arise !"  -         -         -  37 

Sleep,  Silence"  Child    -         -         -         -  40 

To  the  Nig-htingale      -         -         -         -  41 

Madrigal  I   -         -         -         -         -         -  43 

Madrigal  II 44 

Sir  Francis  Kynaston  ( 1587- 1642)— 
To   Cynthia,  on   Concealment  of   her 
Beauty 45 

Nathaniel  Field  (1587-1633)— 

Matin  Song- 47 

George  Wither  (1588- 1667) — 

Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep!      -         -         -         -     49 

Thomas  Carew  ( 1598?- 1639?)— 

Song — Ask  Me  no  more  where  Jove 

bestows 53 

To  My  Inconstant  Mistress  -         -     54 


CONTENTS 

Page 

An  Hymeneal  Dialogfue       .         .         -  55 

Ingrateful  Beaut}-  Threatened     -         -  57 

Robert  Herrick  ( 159  i- 1674)— 

To  Dianeme          -         -         -         -         -  59 

To  Meadows         -         -         -         -         -  60 

To  Blossoms         -         -         -         -         -  61 

To  Daffodils         .         .         _         .         .  62 

To  Daisies,  Not  to  Shut  so  Soon         -  63 

To  Violets 64 

To   the  Virgins,    To    Make    Much  of 

Time  -..-_-  65 
Dress  -------66 

In  Silks -  ^7 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying           -         -  68 

Grace  for  a  Child          -         -         -         -  72 

Ben  Jonson  ------  73 

Cock-Crow  ------  74 

A    Thanksgiving-    to    God,     for    His 

House        ------  75 

To  Death     ------  78 

The  New-Year's  Gift  -         -         -         -  79 

Eternity So 

To  his  Saviour,  a  Child;    a   Present, 

by  a  Child         -----  81 

To  his  Conscience        -         -         -         -  82 

His  Dream  - 83 

An  Ode,  or  Psalm,  to  God  -         -         -  84 

Evil       -------  85 

To  his  dear  God  -         -         -         -         -  86 

To  Heaven 8, 

His  Meditation  upon  Death          -         -  88 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Henry     King,    Bishop    of    Chichester 
( 1 592- 1669)-- 

A  Renunciation    -         -         -         -         -  91 

Exequy  on  his  Wife     -         -         -         -  93 

George  Herbert  ( 1593- '633)— 

Holy  Baptism       -----  97 

Virtue -         -  98 

Unkindness  ------  99 

Love loi 

The  Pulley  ------  102 

The  Collar 103 

Life f05 

Misery           -         -         -         -         -         -  106 

Easter-         -         -         -         -         -         -  no 

Discipline     -         -         -         -         -         -  m 

A  Dialog-ue-         -         -         -         -         -  "3 

James  vShirley  (1596-1666) — 

Equality 115 

Anonymous — 

Lullaby         ------  17 

Sir  William  Davenant  { 1606- 1668)— 

Morning        -         -         -         -         -         -  119 

Edmund  Waller  ( 1606- 1687)— 

The  Rose     -         -         -         -         -         -  121 

To  Vandike 123 

On  the  Friendship  betwixt  two  Ladies  125 

Of  Loving  at  First  Sight      -         -         -  127 

xii 


CONTENTS 


Pase 


Thomas  Randolph  (1605- 1635)— 

His  Mistress 129 

Charles  Best  (fl.  1602) — 

A  Sonnet  of  the  Moon  -         -         -   131 

John  Milton  (1608-1674) — 

Hymn  on  Christ's  Nativity  -  -  133 

L'AlIeg-ro      ------  144 

II  Penseroso 150 

Lycidas         -         -         -         -  -  -  157 

On  his  Blindness           -         -  -  _  168 

On  his  Deceased  Wife          -  -  -  169 

On  Shakespeare  -         -         -  -  -  170 

Song-  on  May  Morning-         -  -  -  171 

Invocation  to  Sabrina           -  -  -  172 

Invocation  to  Echo       -         -  -  -  174 

The  Revel    -         -         -         -  -  -  i75 

The  Attendant  Spirit  -         -  -  -  177 

From  Arcades      -         -         -  -  -  179 

To  Mr.  Lawrence         -         -  -  -  r8o 

Sir  John  Suckling  (1609-1642) — 

The  Shades 181 

Richard  Crashaw  (161 3?- 1649) — 

On  a  Prayer-Book  sent  to  Mrs.  M.  R.  183 

To  the  Morning- 189 

Love's  Horoscope         _         _         .         _  192 

On  Mr.  G.  Herbert's  Book           -         -  195 

Wishes  to  his  vSupposed  Mistress          -  196 

Quern  Vidistis  Fastores,  &c.        -         -  202 
xiii 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Music's  Duel  _  _  -  .  .  jo8 
The  Flamingo  Heart     -         -         -         -  217 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667)— 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Crashavv    -         -  22:1^ 
Hymn  to  the  Light       -         .         -         .  227 
On  the  Death  of  Sir  Anthony  X'andike, 

the  Famous  Painter-         .         .         .  234 
On  the  Death  of  Mr.  William  Hervey    237 
For  Hope     ------  245 

On  Orinda's  Poems      -         -         -         -  248 

Richard  Lovelace  (1618-1658)— 

To  Lucasta  on  going  to  the  Wars       -  251 

To  Amarantha 252 

Lucasta  --_.-.  253 
To  Althea,  from  Prison  -  .  -  255 
A   guiltless    Lady    imprisoned:     after 

Penanced 257 

The  Rose      ------  259 

The  Grasshopper  _         .         _         -  261 

Andrew  Marvell  ( 162  i- 1678)— 

A    Horatian     Ode    upon     Cromwell's 

Return  from  Ireland  -         -         -  263 

The   Picture  of  little  T.  C.  in  a  Pros- 
pect of  Flowers         -         -         _         -  268 
The  Nymph  Complaining  of  the  Death 
of  her  Fawn       -----  270 

Hopeless  Love 275 

The  Garden  -----  277 

The  Fair  Singer 280 

xiv 


CONTENTS 

Page 
The  Mower  against  Gardens       -         -  281 

An  Epitaph 283 

The  Coronet 284 

Henry  Vaughan  (162 2- 1695) — 

The  Dawning"      -----  287 

Childhood 289 

Corruption 291 

The  Night 293 

The  Eclipse 296 

The  Retreat 297 

The  World  of  Light     -         .         -         -  299 

Sweet  Peace 302 

The  Timber  -----  303 

John  Dryden  (1631-1700)-— 

Ode  to  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew        -         -  305 

Sir  George  Etherege  (i635?~i69i)— 
Song    - 311 

Thomas  Traherne  (i636?-i674)— 

The  Salutation  -  -  -  -  -  313 
Wonder  .-..--  316 
News 319 

Sir  Charles  Sedley  (1639?- 1701)— 

To  Chloris   ------  323 

To  Celia 325 

Aphera  Behn  (1640- 1689)— 

Song,  from  Abdclaza.r  -         .         -  327 

XV 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Earl  of  Rochester  (1647-1680)— 
An  Apolog-y  .         -         -         .         _  329 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham  (1628-1687)— 

On   One   who  died,    Discovering'   her 
Kindness  - 331 


(  B  126 


John   Donne 


This  Happy 

Dream  ^  ^ 

Dear  love,  for  nothing  less  than  thee 
Would  I  have  broke  this  happy  dream ; 

It  was  a  theme 
For  reason,  much  too  strong  for  fantasy. 
Therefore  thou  wak'dst  me  wisely;  yet 
My    dream    thou    brok'st    not    but    con-      \ 

tinu'dst  it.  I 

Thou   art   so   true,  that   thoughts  of  thee       \ 

suffice  I 

To    make   dreams   truth,    and   fables    his-       * 

tories; 
Enter  these  arms,  for  since  thou  thought'st 

it  best 
Not  to  dream  all  my  dream,  let's  act  the 

rest. 
(B126)  I  B 


THIS  HAPPY  DREAM 

As  lightning  or  a  taper's  light, 

Thine  eyes,  and  not  thy  noise,  waked  me. 

Yet  I  thought  thee 
(For   thou    lov'st   truth)    an  angel  at  first 

sight; 
But  when  I  saw  thou  saw'st  my  heart, 
And     knew'st    my    thoughts    beyond    an 

angel's  art. 
When  thou  knew'st  what  I   dreamt,  then 

thou  knew'st  when 
Excess  of  joy  would  wake  me,  and  cam'st 

then; 
I  must  confess,  it  could  not  choose  but  be 
Profane  to  think  thee  anything  but  thee. 

Coming  and  staying  showed  thee  thee, 
But  rising  makes  me  doubt,  that  now 

Thou  art  not  thou. 
That  love  is  weak,  where  fear's  as  strong 

as  he; 
'Tis  not  all  spirit,   pure  and  brave, 
If  mixture  it  of  fear,  shame,  honour,  have. 
Perchance  of  torches,  which  must  ready  be, 
Men  light  and  put  out,  so  thou  deal'st  with 

me; 
Thou    cam'st    to    kindle,    goest   to   come : 

then  I 
Will  dream  that  hope  again,  but  else  would 

die. 


Death 


Death,   be  not  proud,  though  some   have 

called  thee 
iMighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 
For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost 

overthrow 
Die  not,   poor  Death,   nor  yet  canst  thou 

kill  me. 


From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture 

be, 
Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee  much  more 

must  flow; 
And    soonest    our   best   men  with    thee  do 

SO, 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery. 

Thou  'rt  slave  to  fate,  chance,   kings,  and 

desperate  men. 
And  dost  with  poison,   war,  and  sickness 

dwell, 

3 


DEATH 

And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep 

as  well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke.     Why  swell'st 

thou  then? 


One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more;   Death,  thou 
shalt  die. 


Hymn  to 

God  the  j^  j^ 

Father 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done 
before  ? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  through  which 
I  run, 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I   do  de- 
plore? 
When    Thou    hast    done.    Thou    hast   not 
done; 

For  I  have  more. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  which  I  have 
won 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their 
door? 
Wilt  Thou    forgive  that    sin   which    I    did 
shun 
A  year  or  two  and  wallowed  in  a  score? 
When    Thou    hast    done,    Thou    hast    not 
done; 

For  1  have  more. 


HYMN   TO    GOD    THE  FATHER 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I  've  spun 
My   last   thread,    I    shall    perish   on    the 
shore; 
But   swear   by  Thyself  that   at  my  death 
Thy  Son 
Shall  shine,  as  He  shines  now  and  here- 
tofore. 
And  having  done  that,  Thou  hast  done; 
I  fear  no  more. 


The 
Funeral 


Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm 

Nor  question  much 
That    subtle    wreath    of  hair   about    mine 

arm; 
The    mystery,    the    sign,    you    must    not 
touch, 

For  't  is  my  outward  soul, 
Viceroy  to  that  which,  unto  heaven  being 
gone, 

Will  leave  this  to  control 
And  keep  these  limbs,  her  provinces,  from 
dissolution. 

But  if  the  sinewy  thread  my  brain  lets  fall, 

Through  every  part 
Can  tie  those  parts  and  make  me  one  of 

•   all; 
The     hairs,     which     upward     grew,     and 
strengtli  and  art 

Have  from  a  better  brain, 


THE   FUNERAL 

Can  better  do't;    except  she  meant  that  I 

B}'  this  should  know  my  pain, 
As    prisoners    then    are    manacled    when 
they  're  condemned  to  die. 

Whate'er  she  meant  by 't,  bury  it  with  me; 

For  since  I  am 
Love's  martyr,  it  might  breed  idolatry 
If  into  other's  hands  these  relics  came. 

As  't  was  humility 
To  afford  to  it  all  that  a  soul  can  do, 

So  'twas  some  bravery 
That  since  you  would    have  none  of  me, 
I  bury  some  of  you. 


Daybreak 


Stay,  O  sweet,  and  do  not  rise! 
The   light   that   shines   comes   from   thine 
eyes ; 

The  day  breaks  not;    it  is  my  heart, 

Because  that  thou  and  I  must  part. 

Stay  or  else  my  joys  will  di^ 

And  perish  in  their  infancy. 


Richard   Barnefield 


The 

Nightingale 


As  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  row  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring 
Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  Nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn 
Leaned  her  breast  against  a  thorn 
And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry; 
Tereu,  tere'i,  by  and  by: 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain; 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  my  own. 

— Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 

None  takes  pity  on  my  pain: 

Senseless  trees,   they  cannot  hear  thee, 

Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee. 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead. 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead: 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing: 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 


Ben  J 


onson 


Chans' 
Triumph 


See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty; 
And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through    swords,    through    seas,    whither 
she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  love's  world  compriseth! 

Do  but  look  on  her,  she  is  bright 
As  love's  star  when  it  riseth ! 

i3 


CHARIS'    TRIUMPH 

Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her! 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements' 
strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver, 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelled  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier 

Or  the  nard  in  the  tire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 
O   so  white!     O   so  soft!     O   so   sweet  is 
she! 


14 


Jealousy 


Wretched  and  foolish  jealousy, 
How  cam'st  thou  thus  to  enter  me? 

I  ne'er  was  of  thy  kind: 
Nor  have  I  yet  the  narrow  mind 

To  vent  that  poor  desire, 
That  others  should  not  warm  them  at  my 
fire: 

I  wish  the  sun  should  shine 
On  all   men's   fruits   and  flowers   as  well 
as  mine. 


But  under  the  disguise  of  love. 

Thou  say'st  thou  only  cam'st  to  prove 

What  my  affections  were. 
Think'st  thou  that  love  is  helped  by  fear? 

Go,  get  thee  quickly  forth. 
Love's    sickness    and    his    noted    want    of 
worth, 

Seek  doubting  men  to  please. 
I  ne'er  will  owe  my  health  to  a  disease. 


15 


Epitaph  on 
Elizabeth  L.  H. 


Wouldst  thou  hear  what  many  say 
In  a  little? — reader,  stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 

As  much  beauty  as  could  die; 

Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth, 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  in  death: 

Fitter  where  it  died  to  tell 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell! 


l6 


Hymn  to 
Diana 


Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep. 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close: 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight. 
Goddess  excellently  bright! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart. 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver, 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 
Goddess  excellently  bright! 


{  B  126 )  17 


On  my  First 
Daughter 


Here  lies  to  each  her  parents'  ruth, 
Mary,  the  daughter  of  their  youth: 
Yet    all    Heaven's    gifts    being    Heaven's 

due, 
It  makes  the  father  less  to  rue. 
At  six  months'  end  she  parted  hence 
With  safety  of  her  innocence; 
Whose  soul  Heaven's  Queen  (whose  name 

she  bears). 
In  comfort  of  her  mother's  tears, 
Hath  placed  among  her  virgin  train: 
Where,  while  that  severed  doth  remain, 
This  grave  partakes  the  fleshly  birth. 
Which  cover  lightly,  gentle  earth. 


x8 


Echo's  Lament 
for  Narcissus 


Slow,   slow,    fresh    fount,    keep    time  with 
my  salt  tears; 
Yet,     slower     yet  ;     O      faintly,     gentle 
springs; 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears; 
Woe  weeps    out    her  division   when  she 
sings. 

Droop  herbs  and  flowers; 
Fall  grief  in  showers, 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours; 
O,   I  could  still. 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since    nature's    pride    is    now    a    withered 
daffodil. 


19 


An  Epitaph  on 
Salathiel  Pavy, 
a  Child  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Chapel 


Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
It  was  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  Heaven  and  Nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 


Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  fates  turned  cruel, 
Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel; 
And  did  act  (what  now  we  moan) 

Old  men  so  duly, 
Ah,  sooth,  the  Parca^  thought  him  one 

He  played  so  truly. 


AN  EPITAPH 

So  by  error  to  liis  fate 

They  all  consented, 
But  viewing  him  since,  alas,   too  late 

They  have  repented; 
And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him; 
But  being  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 


The  Noble         j^         ^ 
Balm 

High-spirited  friend, 
I    send    nor   balms    nor   cor'sives    to    your 
wound: 

Your  fate  hath  found 
A  gentler  and  more  agile  hand  to  tend 
The  care  of  that  which  Is  but  corporal; 
And    doubtful    days,    which    were    named 
critical, 

Have  made  their  fairest  flight 

And  now  are  out  of  sight. 
Yet  doth  some  wholesome  physic  for  the 
mind 

Wrapp'd  in  this  paper  lie, 
Which  in  the  taking  if  you  misapply, 

You  are  unkind. 

Your  covetous  hand, 
Happy  In  that  fair  honour  it  hath  gained. 

Must  now  be  reined. 
True  valour  doth    her  own    renown    com- 
mand 


THE  NOBLE  BALM 

In    one    full    action;    nor    have    you    now 

more 
To  do,  than  be  a  husband  of  that  store. 

Think  but  how  dear  you  bought 

This  fame  which  you  have  caught: 
Such    thoughts    will    make    you    more    in 
love  with  truth. 

'Tis  wisdom,  and  that  high. 
For  men  to  use  their  fortune  reverently, 

Even  in  youth. 


23 


Thomas  Dekker 


Lullaby 


Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby. 
Rock  them,  rock  a  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing-  a  lullaby. 
Rock  them,  rock  a  lullaby. 


25 


Sweet  Content 


Art    thou    poor,    and    hast    ihou    g-olden 
slumbers? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art    thou     rich,    and     is    thy    mind     per- 
plexed? 

O  punishment ! 
Dost    thou    laugh    to    see    how    fools    are 

vexed 
To     add      to      golden     numbers,      golden 

numbers? 
O  sweet  content!    O   sweet,  O  sweet  con- 
tent! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then     hey     nonny     nonny,     hey     nonny 
nonny! 

Canst    drink    the    waters    of    the    crisped 
spring? 

O  sweet  content! 
Swimm'st    thou    in   wealth,   yet    sink'st   in 
thine  own  tears? 
O  punishment! 
26 


SWEET  CONTENT 

Then    he    that    patiently    want's    burden 

bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  Is  a  kuig,  a  khig ! 
O  sweet  content!   O  sweet,  O  sweet  con- 
tent! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then    hey    nonny    nonny,     hey    nonny 


27 


Thomas   Heywood 


Good-morrow        j^  J^ 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 

Sweet  air  blow  soft,   mount  larks  aloft 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I  '11  borrow; 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing,   nightingale  sing 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow. 
Notes  from  them  both  I  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow! 
,29 


GOOD-MORROW 

You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves. 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing,  birds  in  every  furrow! 


30 


John   Fletcher 


Invocation 

to  Sleep  ^ 

FROM    VALENTINIAN 

Care  -  charming    Sleep,  thou   easer   of  all 

woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince ;   fall  like  a  cloud 
In   gentle   showers;    give   nothing  that   is 

loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ; — easy,  sweet, 
And    as    a    purling    stream,    thou    son    of 

Night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses ;  sing  his  pain 
Like    hollow    murmuring    wind    or    silver 

rain  ; 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh  gently,  slide 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride. 


31 


Beaumont  and   Fletcher 


"I  Died 
True" 


Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew; 
Maidens,  willow-branches  bear; 

Say,  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  J  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth. 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 


(Bic6)  33 


Francis  Beaumont 


On  the  Tombs 

in  Westminster         j^         j^ 

Abbey 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear! 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here ! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ; 
Here  they  lie  had  realms  and  lands, 
Who    now    want    strength    to    stir    their 

hands ; 
Where  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 
They  preach,   In  greatness  is  no  trust. 
Here  's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
W^ith  the  richest  royallest  seed 
That  the  Earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin : 
Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 
Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died  I 
35 


IN   WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings : 
Here  's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


William  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden 

Song  ^  j^ 

Phoebus,  arise ! 

And  paint  the  sable  skies 

With  azure,  white,  and  red: 

Rouse  Memnon's  mother  from  her  Tithon's 
bed 

That  she  thy  career  may  with  roses  spread: 

The  nightingales   thy  coming  each-where 
sing : 

Make  an  eternal  spring! 

Give   life   to   this   dark   world   which    lieth 
djad ; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In    larger    locks     than    thou    wast    wont 
before, 

And  emperor-like  decore 

With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair: 

Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 

Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glori- 
ous light. 

37 


PHCEBUS,    ARISE! 

This  is  that  happy  morn, 

That  day,  long-wished  day 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn 

And  fates  not  hope  betray), 

Which,   purely  white,  deser\es 

An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn   should   bring   unto  this 

grove 
My    Love,    to    hear    and    recompense    my 

love. 
Fair  king,   who  all  preserves, 
But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 
And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 
Shalt    see    than    those    which    by    Peneus' 

streams 
Did  once  thy  heart  surprise. 
Nay,  suns,  which  shine  as  clear 
As  thou,   when  two  thou   didst   to   Rome 

appear. 


Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise: 
If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 
A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre. 
Your  stormy  chiding  stay; 
Let  Zephyr  only  breathe, 
And  with  her  tresses  play, 
Kissing  sometimes   these    purple   ports    of 
death. 

38 


PHCEBUS,   ARISE! 

The  winds  all  silent  are, 

And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 

Makes  vanish  every  star: 

Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond    the    hills,    to    shun    his    flaming 

wheels  t 
The    fields    with    flowers    are    decked    in 

every  hue, 
The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their 

blue ; 
Here  is  the  pleasant  place— 
And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas! 


39 


Sleep,  Silence*         j^        j^ 
Child 

Sleep,  Silence'  child,  sweet  father  of  soft 
rest. 

Prince,     whose     approach     peace     to     all 
mortals  brings, 

indifferent  host  to  shepherds  and  to  kings, 

Sole    comforter    of   minds    with    grief   op- 
pressed ; 

Lo,    by    thy    charming    rod    all    breathing 
things 

Lie    slumb'ring,    with    forgetfulness    pos- 
sessed. 

And    yet    o'er    me    to    spread    thy    drowsy 
wings 

Thou    sparest,    alas !    who    cannot    be    thy 
guest. 

Since  I  am  thine,  O  come,  but  with  that 
face 

To  inward   light  which  thou  art  wont  to 
show ; 

With  feigned  solace  ease  a  true-felt  woe; 

Or  if,  deaf  god,  thou  do  deny  that  grace, 
Come  as  thou  wilt,  and  what  thou  wilt 

bequeath : 
I  long  to  kiss  the  image  of  my  death. 
40 


To  the  j^  j^ 

Nightingale 

Dear  chorister,  who  from  these  shadows 
sends, 

Ere  that  the  blushing-  morn  dare  show 
her  light, 

Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night 
attends, 

Become  all  ear,  stars  stay  to  hear  thy 
plight  : 

If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought 
transcends. 

Who  ne'er,  not  in  a  dream,  did  taste  de- 
light. 

May  thee  importune  who  like  care  pre- 
tends, 

And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe's 
despite; 

Tell     me    (so    may    thou    fortune    milder 

try, 

And  long,   long  sing)  for  what  thou  thus 

complains, 
Sith,    winter    gone,    the    sun    in    dappled 

sky 
Now     smiles     on     meadows,     mountains, 

woods,  and  plains? 
41 


TO    THE  NIGHTINGALE 

The    bird,    as    if   my    question    did    her 

move, 
With  trembling  wings  sobbed  forth,  "I 

love!   I  love!" 


42 


Madrigal  I  j^  j^ 

Like  the  Idalian  queen, 
Her  hair  upon  her  eyne, 
With  neck  and  breast's  ripe  apples  to   be 
seen, 
At  first  glance  of  the  morn, 
In   Cyprus'   gardens   gathering   those  fair 
flowers 
Which  of  her  blood  were  born, 
I  saw,  but  fainting  saw,   my  paramours. 
The  graces  naked  danced  about  the  place 
The  winds  and  trees  amazed 
With  silence  on  her  gazed ; 
The  flowers  did  smile,  like  those  upon  her 

face, 
And   as    their   aspen    stalks    those    fingers 
band. 
That  she  might  read  my  case 
A  hyacinth  I  wished  me  in  her  hand. 


43 


Madrigal  W  J^  J^ 

The  beauty  and  the  life 
Of  life's  and  beauty's  fairest  paragon, 
O  tears!  O  grief!  hung  at  a  feeble  thread 
To  which  pale  Atropos  had  set  her  knife; 
The  soul  with  many  a  groan 
Had  left  each  outward  part, 
And    now    did    take   its    last   leave   of  the 

heart ; 
Nought  else    did    want,    save   death,   even 

to  be  dead; 
When  the  afflicted  band  about  her  bed, 
Seeing  so   fair  him   come  in  lips,  cheeks, 

eyes, 
Cried,    "Ah!    and   can    death    enter   para- 
dise?" 


44 


Sir  Francis   Kynaston 


To  Cynthia, 

on  Concealment         -^         J^ 

of  her  Beauty 

Do  not  conceal  those  radiant  eyes, 
The  starlight  of  serenest  skies; 
Lest,  wanting  of  their  heavenly  light, 
They  turn  to  chaos'  endless  night! 


Do  not  conceal  those  tresses  fair, 
The  silken  snares  of  th}'  curled  hair; 
Lest,  finding  neither  gold  nor  ore, 
The  curious  silk- worm  work  no  more. 


Do  not  conceal  those  breasts  of  thine, 
More  snow-white  than  the  Apennine; 
Lest,  if  there  be  like  cold  or  frost, 
The  lily  be  forever  lost. 
45 


TO    CYNTHIA 

Do  not  conceal  that  fragrant  scent, 
Thy  breath,  which  to  all  flowers  hath  lent 
Perfumes;  lest,  it  being  supprest, 
No  spices  grow  in  all  the  rest. 

Do  not  conceal  thy  heavenh   voice, 
Which  makes  the  hearts  of  gods  rejoice; 
Lest,  music  hearing  no  such  thing, 
The  nightingale  forget  to  sing. 

Do  not  conceal,   nor  yet  eclipse, 

Thy  pearly  teeth  with  coral  lips; 

Lest  that  the  seas  cease  to  bring  forth 

Gems  which  from  thee  have  all  their  worth. 

Do  not  conceal  no  beauty,  grace, 
That's  either  in  thy  mind  or  face; 
Lest  virtue  overcome  by  vice 
Make  men  believe  no  Paradise. 


46 


Nathaniel   Field 


Matin  ^  j^ 

Song 

Rise,  Lady  Mistress,  rise! 

The  night  hath  tedious  been; 
No  sleep  hath  fallen  into  mine  eyes 

Nor  slumbers  made  me  sin. 
Is  not  she  a  saint  then,  say, 
Thoughts  of  whom  keep  sin  away? 

Rise,  Madam !  rise  and  give  me  light, 
Whom  darkness  still  will  cover. 

And  ignorance,  darker  than  night, 
Till  thou  smile  on  thy  lover. 

All  want  day  till  thy  beauty  rise ; 

For  the  grey  morn  breaks  from  thine  eyes. 


47 


George  Wither 


Sleep,  Baby. 

Sleep!  ^         -^ 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep!  what  ails  my  dear, 
What  ails  my  darling  thus  to  cry? 

Be  still,  my  child,  and  lend  ihine  ear, 
To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 

My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  dear;    sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  blessed  soul,  what  canst  thou  fear? 

What  thing  to  thee  can  mischief  do? 
Thy  God  is  now  thy  father  dear, 

His  holy  Spouse  thy  mother  too. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Though  thy  conception  was  in  sin, 
A  sacred  bathing  thou  hast  had; 

And  though  thy  birth  unclean  hath  been, 
A  blameless  babe  thou  now  art  made. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 
(B126)  49  E 


SLEEP,    BABY,    SLEEP! 

While  thus  thy  lullaby  I  sing, 

For  thee  great  blessing's  ripening  be; 

Thine  Eldest  Brother  is  a  king-, 

And  hath  a  kingdom  bought  for  thee. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


Sleep,  baby,  sleep,  and  nothing  fear; 

For  whosoever  thee  offends 
By  thy  protector  threaten'd  are, 

And  God  and  angels  are  thy  friends. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


When  God  with  us  was  dwelling  here, 
In  little  babes  He  took  delight; 

Such  innocents  as  thou,  my  dear. 
Are  ever  precious  in  His  sight. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


A  little  infant  once  was  He; 

And  strength  in  weakness  then  was  laid 
Upon  His  Virgin  Mother's  knee, 

That  power  to  thee   might  be  convey'd. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 
50 


SLEEP,    BABY,    SLEEP! 

In  this  thy  frailt}-  and  thy  need 

He  friends  and  helpers  doth  prepare, 

Which  thee  shall  cherish,  clothe,  and  feed, 
For  of  thy  weal  they  tender  are. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


The  King  of  kings,  when  He  was  born. 
Had  not  so  much  for  outward  ease; 

By  Him  such  dressings  v/ere  not  worn, 
Nor  suchlike  swaddling-clothes  as  these. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


Within  a  manger  lodged  thy  Lord, 
Where  oxen  lay  and  asses  fed: 

Warm  rooms  we  do  to  thee  afford, 
An  easy  cradle  or  a  bed. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe;    sweet  baby,  sleep. 


The  wants  that  He  did  then  sustain 
Have  purchased  wealth,  my  babe,  for  thee; 

And  by  His  torments  and  His  pain 
Thy  rest  and  ease  secured  be. 

My  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 
51 


SLEEP,    BABY,    SLEEP! 

Thou  hast,  yet  more,  to  perfect  this. 

A  promise  and  an  earnest  got 
Of  gaining  everlasting  bliss, 

Though  thou,  my  babe,  perceiv'st  it  not. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


52 


Thomas  Carew 


Song         -^  -^ 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep, 
These   flowers,   as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies! 


53 


To  my 

Inconstant  ^  ^ 

Mistress 

When  thou,  poor  Excommunicate 
From  all  the  joys  of  Love,  shalt  see 

The  full  reward  and  g^lorlous  fate 

Which   my  strong-  faith   shall   purchase 

me, 
Then  curse  thine  own  inconstancy. 

A  fairer  hand  than  thine  shall  cure 

That   heart    which    thy    false    oaths    did 
wound; 
And  to  my  soul  a  soul  more  pure 

Than    thine    shall    by    Love's    hand    be 

bound, 
And  both  with  equal  glory  crowned. 

Then  shalt  thou  weep,  entreat,  complain 
To  Love,  as  I  did  once  to  thee : 

When  all  thy  tears  shall  be  as  vain 
As  mine  were  then:  for  thou  shalt  be 
Damned  for  thy  false  Apostacy. 
54 


An  Hymeneal  ^  ^ 

Dialogue 

Groom. — Tell  me,  my  Love,  since  Hymen 

tied 
The  holy  knot,  hast  thou  not  felt 

A  new-infused  spirit  slide 
Into   thy  breast,  whilst   mine  did  melt? 

Bride. — First  tell  me,  Sweet,  whose  words 
were  those? 
For  though  your  voice  the  air  did  break, 
Yet  'did  m}-  soul  the  sense  compose, 
And    through    your    lips    my   heart    did 
speak. 

Groom. — Then   I   perceive,   when  from   the 
flame 

Of  love   my   scorched  soul  did  retire, 
Your  frozen  heart   in   that  place  came. 

And  sweetly  melted  in  that  fire. 

Bridi\—'T  is   true,   for  when   that   mutual 
change 

Of  souls  was  made,  with  equal  gain, 
I   straight  might   feel  diffused  a  strange 

Bui  gentle  heat  through  every  vein. 


AN  HYMENEAL  DIALOGUE 

Bride. — Thy   bosom    then    I'll    make   my 
nest, 
Since  there  my  willing-  soul  doth  perch. 
Groom. — And  for  my  heart,  in  thy  chaste 
breast, 
I'll  make  an  everlasting  search. 

O  blest  disunion,  that  doth  so 

Our  bodies  from  our  souls  divide ; 

As  two  to  one,  and  one  four  grow, 
Each  by  contraction  multiplied. 


56 


Ingrateful 

Beauty  J^  J^ 

Threatened 

Know,  Celia  (since  thou  art  so  proud), 
'T  was  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown ! 

Thou  hadst  in  the  forgotten  crowd 
Of  common  beauties  lived  unknown, 

Had  not  my  verse  exhaled  thy  name, 

And  with  it  imped  the  wings  of  fame. 

That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine; 

I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes; 
Thy  sweets,  thy  graces,  all  are  mine; 

Thou  art  my  star,  shin'st  in  my  skies; 
Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrowed  sphere 
Lightning  on  him  that  fixed  thee  there. 

Tempt  me  with  such  affrights  no  more 
Lest  what  I  made  I  uncreate ! 

Let  fools  thy  mystic  forms  adore; 
I  '11  know  thee  in  thy  mortal  state. 

Wise  poets,  that  wrapped  truth  in  tales, 

Knew  her  themselves  through  all  her  veils. 


Robert  Herrick 


To  Dianeme         ^  ^ 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Which  star-like  sparkle  in  their  skies ; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives ;  yours  yet  free. 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  love-sick  air; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 


59 


To  Meadows 


Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 

Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  how  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You  've  heard  them  sweetly  sing-, 
And  seen  them  in  a  round, 

Each  virgin,  like  a  Spring, 
With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread. 

And  with  dishevelled  hair 

Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

You  Ve  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 
60 


To  Blossoms 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  you  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight. 

And  so  to  bid  good-night? 
'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite ! 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave : 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


61 


To  Daffodils         j^  j^ 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon : 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  j'ou, 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 

As  you,  or  any  thing. 
We  die. 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


62 


To  Daisies, 

Not  to  Shut         ^         j^ 

so  Soon 

Shut  not  so  soon;   the  dull-eyed  night 

Hath  not  as  yet  begun 
To  make  a  seizure  on  the  light, 

Or  to  seal  up  the  sun. 

No  marigolds  yet  closed  are, 
No  shadows  great  appear; 

Nor  doth  the  early  shepherd's  star 
Shine  like  a  spangle  here. 

Stay  but  till  my  Julia  close 

Her  life-begetting  eye. 
And  let  the  whole  world  then  dispose 

Itself  to  live  or  die. 


63 


To  Violets 


Welcome,  Maids  of  Honour! 
You  do  bring- 
In  the  Spring, 

And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  Virgins  man}^, 
Fresh  and   fair; 
Yet  you  are 

iMore  sweet  than  any. 

Y'are  the  Maiden  Posies, 

And  so  graced. 

To  be  placed 
'Fore  Damask  Roses. 

Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By  and  by 

Ye  do  lie, 
Poor  Girls,  neglected. 


To  the  Virgins, 
To  Make  Much 
of  Time 


Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying : 
And    this  same   flower  that   smiles   to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious   Lamp  of  Heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he  's  a-getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he  's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,   the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,   but  use  your  time; 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry : 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime. 

You  may  for  ever  tarry. 


(B126)  ^5 


Dress  J^  J^ 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness : — 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  fine  distraction, — 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher, — 

A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 

Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly, — 

A  winning  wave,  deser\ing  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat, — 

A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility, — 

Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 


66 


In  Silks  J^  j^ 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free; 
O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 


Corinna's 

Going  JS^  ^ 

a-Maying 

Get  up,  get  up  tor  shame  I     Thr  hlooinin^^ 

morn 
Upon    her    wings     presents    the    gud    un- 
shorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  lier  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air  I 
Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  trer. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward 

the  east 
Above  an  hour  since ;  yet  you  nf)t  drest — 
Nay!    not  so  much  as  out  of  bed, 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And    sung    their    thankful     hymns:    "ti-> 

sin, 
Nay,  profanation,   to  keep  in— 
Whereas     a     thousaiid     virgins     on     tliis 

day 
Spring,   sooner  than   the   lark,   to  fetch  in 
May. 

68., 


COJ^/XXA'S   GOIXG   A-MAVIXG 

Ri>e,    and    pul    on    your    foliaj^r,    ;ind    hv 

s<*en 
To  come  fortli,  liUt-  ilu*  Sprini,'-tinu',  fresh 
and  ^^reen, 
And  sweet  as   Flora.     Take  no  can' 
Vor  jewtis  for  your  i^^own  or  liair: 
Kear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 
(iems  in  abundance  upon  you  : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kepi 
Aj(^ainst  you  come.  som»-  ori«MU  pt-arls  un- 
wrpi : 
Come,  and   receive  th«*ni  while   ihc  \'\^\n 
Hani^^s  on  the  dew-Iock.s  of  the  nij^hl  : 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern   hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash.  dres^.  be  brief 

in  prayinj^ : 
F«'W    beads    are    best,    when    once    wf    j^o 
a- Maying. 

Come,    m\    Curinna.    come!    and    comlnj^^. 

mark 
How  each   field   unn-<  a  >irfel,   each  street 
a  park 
Made    ^'reen,   and    trimmed    with    trees: 

see  how 
Devotion  §^ives  each   houst*  a  boujj^h 
Or   branch:  each    porch,  each   door,  ere 

this, 
An  ark.   a   tabernacle  is, 
69 


co7?AVAVi\v  go/at;  J-A/A]'/\G 

Made  up  of  whitc-tliurn  m-ally  iiUn  wove, 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  >liade.s  of  love. 
Can  such  dehj^^hts  be  in  the  street 
And  open   tulds,  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we  '11  abroad  :   and   l««t  's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  fur  Ma)  : 

And    sin    iiu    niDrc,   as   \\r    ha\e  dom-.    by 
staying  : 

But,  mv  Corinn.i,  <  ome  !  Id  '>  i^o  a-Mayinj^. 


There's   not    a    budding    boy   or   j^irl,    this 

day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some   have  despatched    their  cak'-    \v(\ 

cream, 
Before  that  we  have  lel't  to  dream  : 
And    some    have    wept,    and    wooed,    and 

plighted  troth, 
And  cliose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  oft' 
sloth: 
Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,   Love's  firmament : 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  picked  : — Yet  we  're 
not  a-Maying. 

70 


COJ^LVAWS   GOIXG  A-MAVING 

Coiiit*!    I«*l     lis    ^o,    whilr    uc    air    \u    niir 
prime. 

And   lake   llio   harniKss   lolly  of  lh»-   liinc! 
VV^'  shall  j^row  old  apact-,  and  (ii»- 
Hetbrf  we  know  our  liberty. 
Our  life  is  short :   and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun: 

Aiul  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 

C)iu«-  lost,  can   ne'er  be  found  ajjain  ; 
So  when  or  you  or   I   are  made 
A   fabU',   sonj^,   or  tleelinj^  shade, 
All  love,  all  likinl,^  all  deli^^ht 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  ni^ht. 

Then    while    time   *er\e.s.    and    we    an-    but 
decayinj^, 

Come,      my     C'orlnna,      Lome !     let's     j^o 
a-Mayini^. 


Grace  for 
a  Child 


Here,   a  little  child,    I   stand, 

HeavinjJ^  up  my  either  hand  : 

Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 

Here  I   lift  them  up  to  Thee, 

For  a  benison  to  fall 

On  our  meat  and  on  our  all.      Amen. 


72 


Ben  Jonson  J^  -^ 

Ah.    Brii! 
Say  how,  or  when, 
Sliall   we  th\    ^iirsts 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts 

Made  at  the  Sun, 

The  Dog^,  the  Triple  Tun? 

Where  we  such  clusters  had 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 

Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine, 

My  Ben! 
Or  come  again 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wil's  great  o\rr-plus; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it. 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend  : 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 
That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  suchawit.  the  world  should  havenomore 


73 


Cock-Crow 


Bell-man  of  Night,  if  I  about  shall  i^o 
For  to  deny  my  Master,  do  thou  crow. 
Thou  stop'st  St.  Peter  in  the  midst  of  sin ; 
Stay  me,  by  crowing-  ere  I  do  begin. 
Better  it  is,  premonished,  for  to  shun 
A  sin,  than  fall  to  weeping  when  't  is  done. 


74 


A  Thanksgiving 

to  God,  for  His        J^         ^ 

House 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  Roof 

Is  weather-proof; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 
Both  soft,  and  dry; 
Where  Thou  my  chamber  for  to  ward 

Hast  set  a  Guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me,  while   1   sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  Fate, 

Both  void  of  state; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  th'  poor, 
Who  thither  come  and  freely  get 

Good  words,  or  meat: 
Likeas  my  Parlour,  so  my  Hall 

And  Kitchen's  small: 
75 


A    THANKSGIVING 

A  little  Butterv,  and  therein 

A  little  Bin. 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  Bread 

L'nchipl,  un tit-ad: 
Some  brittle  slicks  ol"  Thorn  or  Briar 

Make  me  a  fire, 
Close  by  whose  livint;^  coal    1   sit, 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,   1  confess  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  Pulse  is  Thine, 
And  all  those  other  Bits,  that  be 

There  plac'd  by  Thee; 
The  Worts,  the  Purslain,  and  the  Mess 

Of  water-cress, 
Which     of     Thy      kindness     Thou      hast 
sent; 

And  my  content 
Makes  those  and  my  beloved  Beet 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'Tis    Thou    that    crown'st    my    glittering 
Hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth; 
And  giv'st  me  Wassail   Bowls  lo  drink, 

Spic'd  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  'tis  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand, 

That  soils  my  land; 
And  gives  me,  for  my  Bushel  sown, 

Twice  ten  for  one: 
Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  Hen  to  lay 

Her  egg  each  day: 
76 


A    THANKSGIVING 

Besides  my  healthful  Ewes  to  bear 

Mc  twins  each  year: 
The  wliile  the  conduits  of  my  Kine 

Run  Cream  (for  Wine). 
All  these,  and  better  Thou  dost  send 

Me,  to  this  end. 
That   I   should  render,   for  my  part, 

A  thankful  heart; 
Which,  fir'd  with  incense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  Thine; 
But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be. 

My  Christ,  by  Thee. 


71 


To  Death 


Thou  bidst  me  come  away, 
And  I  ']1  no  longer  stay, 
Then  for  to  shed  some  tears 
For  faults  of  former  years; 
And  to  repent  some  crimes, 
Done  in  the  present  times: 
And  next,  to  take  a  bit 
Of  Bread,  and  Wine  with  it: 
To  don  my  robes  of  love, 
Fit  for  the  place  above; 
To  gird  my  loins  about 
With  charity  throughout; 
And  so  to  travail  hence 
With  feet  of  innocence: 
These  done,  I  '11  only  cry 
God  mercy;  and  so  die. 


7^ 


The  New-  ^  ^ 

Year's  Gift 

Let  others  look  for  pearl  and  gold, 

Tissues  or  tabbies  manifold; 

One  only  look  of  that  sweet  hay 

Whereon  the  blessed  Baby  lay, 

Or  one  poor  swaddling-clout,  shall  be 

The  richest  New-Year's  gift  to  me. 


79" 


Eternity 


O  Years!  and  Age  I   Farewell: 
Behold  1  go, 
Where  I  do  know 

Infinity  to  dwell. 

And  these  mine  eyes  shall  see 
All  times,  how  they 
Are  lost  i'  th'  Sea 

Of  vast  Eternity. 

Where  never  Moon  shall  sway 
The  Stars;  but  she, 
And  Night,  shall  be 

Drown'd  in  one  endless  Day. 


So 


To  his  Saviour, 

a  Child;  ^  ^ 

a  Present, 

by  a  Child 

Go,  pretty  child,  and  bear  this  Flower 
Unto  thy  little  Saviour; 
And  tell  Him,  by  that  Bud  now  blown, 
He  is  the  Rose  of  Sharon  known: 
When  thou  hast  said  so,  stick  it  there 
Upon  His  Bib,  or  Stomacher: 
And  tell  Him  (for  good  handsel!  too), 
That  thou  hast  brought  a  Whistle  new, 
Made  of  a  clean  straight  oaten  reed, 
To  charm  His  cries  (at  time  of  need): 
Tell  Him,  for  Coral,  thou  hast  none; 
But  if  thou  hadst.  He  should  have  one; 
But  poor  thou  art,  and  known  to  be 
Even  as  moneyless,  as  He. 
Lastly,  if  thou  canst  win  a  kiss 
From  those  mellifluous  lips  of  His; 
Then  never  take  a  second  on. 
To  spoil  the  first  impression. 

(B126)  81  G 


To  his 
Conscience 


Can  I  not  sin,  but  thou  wilt  be 

My  private  Protonotary? 

Can  I  not  woo  thee  to  pass  by 

A  short  and  sweet  iniquity? 

1  Ml  cast  a  mist  and  cloud,  upon 

My  delicate  transgression, 

So  utter  dark,  as  that  no  eye 

Shall  see  the  hug'd  impiety: 

Gifts  blind  the  wise,  and  bribes  do  please, 

And  wind  all  other  witnesses: 

And  wilt  not  thou,  with  gold,  be  tied 

To  lay  thy  pen  and  ink  aside? 

That  in  the  mirk  and  tonguelcss  night, 

Wanton  1  may,  and  thou  not  w^ite? 

It  w'ill  not  be:  And,  therefore,  now. 

For  times  to  come,  I  'W  make  this  Vow, 

From  aberrations  to  live  free; 

So  I  '11  not  fear  the  Judge,  nor  thee. 


32 


His  Dream 


1  dreamt,  last  night,  Thou  didst  transfuse 
Oil  from  Thy  Jar,  into  my  cruse; 
And  pouring  still  Thy  wealthy  store, 
The  vessel,  full,  did  then  run  o'er: 
Methought,  I  did  Thy  bounty  chide, 
To  see  the  waste;   but  'twas  replied 
By  Thee,  Dear  God,  God  gives  man  seed 
Oft-times  for  waste,  as  for  his  need. 
Then  I  could  say,  that  house  is  bare 
That  has  not  bread,  and  some  to  spare. 


83 


An  Ode,  or 
Psalm,  to  God 


Dear  God, 
If  Thy  smart  Rod 

Here  did  not  make  me  sorry, 
1  should  not  be 
With  Thine,  or  Thee, 

In  Thy  eternal  Glory. 

But  since 
Thou  didst  convince 

My  sins,  by  gently  striking-; 
Add  still  to  those 
First  stripes,  new  blows, 

According-  to  Thy  liking. 

Fear  me, 

Or  scourging  tear  me; 
That  thus  from  vices  driven, 

I  may  from  Hell 

Fly  up,  to  dwell 
With  Thee,  and  Thine  in  Heaven. 


84 


Evil 


J^ 


Evil  no  Nature  hath;  the  loss  of  good 
Is  that  which  gives  to  sin  a  livelihood. 


3S 


To  his  j^  ^ 

dear  God 

I  '11  hope  no  more 
For  things  that  will  not  come: 
And,   if  they  do,    they  prove  but  cumber- 
some; 

Wealth  brings  much  woe: 
And,  since  it  fortunes  so, 
'Tis  better  to  be  poor 

Than  so  abound. 

As  to  be  drowned, 
Or  overwhelmed  with  store. 

Pale  care,  avant! 
I  '11  learn  to  be  content 
Willi  that   small   stock,  Thy  Bounty  gave 
or  lent. 

What  may  conduce 
To  my  most  healthful  use, 
Almighty  God  me  grant; 

But  that,  or  this, 

That  hurtful  is. 
Deny  thy  suppliant. 


86 


To  Heaven 


open  thy  gates 

To  him,  who  weeping  waits, 

And  might  come  in, 
But  that  held  back  by  sin. 

Let  mercy  be 
So  kind,  to  set  me  free, 

And  1  will  strait 
Come  in,  or  force  the  srate. 


His  Meditation         j^         ^ 
upon  Death 

Be  those  few  hours,  which   1   have  yet  to 

spend, 
Blest  with  the  Meditation  of  my  end: 
Though  they  be  few  in  number,  I  'm  con- 
tent; 
If  otherwise,  I  stand  indifferent: 
Nor  makes  it  matter,  Nestor's  years  to  tell. 
If  man  lives  long,  and  if  he  live  not  well. 
A  multitude  of  days  still  heaped  on, 
Seldom  brings  order,  but  confusion. 
Might  I  make  choice,  long  life  should  be 

withstood; 
Nor  would    I    care   how   short  it   were,    If 

good: 
Which  to  effect,  let  every  passing  Bell 
Possess  my  thoughts,  next  comes  my  dole- 
ful knell: 
And  when  the  night  persuades  me  to  my  bed, 
I'll  think  I'm  going  to  be  buried: 
So  shall  the  Blankets  which  come  over  me, 
Present  those  Turfs,  which  once  must  cover 
me: 

88 


MEDITATION  UPON  DEATH 

And  with  as  firm  behaviour  I  will  meet 
The    sheet    I    sleep    in,    as    nn    VVinding-- 

sheet. 
When    sleep  shall    bath  his  body  in    mine 

eyes, 
I  w'll  believe,  that  then  my  body  dies: 
And  if  I  chance  to  wake,  and  rise  thereon, 
I  '11  have  in  mind  my  Resurrection, 
Which   must  produce  me  to  that  General 

Doom, 
To  which  the  Peasant,  so  the  Prince  must 

come. 
To   hear  the  Judge    give  sentence  on  the 

Throne, 
Without  the  least  hope  of  affection. 
Tears,  at  that  day,   shall   make  but  weak 

defence, 
When    Hell    and    Horror   fright    the    Con- 
science. 
Let  me,  though  late,  yet  at  the  last,  begin 
To  shun  the  least  Temptation  to  a  sin; 
Though  to  be  tempted  be  no  sin,  until 
Man  to  the  alluring  object  gives  his  will. 
Such    let    my    life    assure    me,    when    my 

breath 
Goes    thieving    from    me,    I    am    safe    in 

death ; 
Which   is   the    height   of  comfort,   when    I 

fall, 
I  rise  triumphant  in  m)'  Funeral. 
89 


Henry  King, 
Bishop  of  Chichester 


A  Renunciation        ^         «^ 

We,  that  did  nothing-  study  but  the  way 
To  love  each  other,  with  which  thoughts 

the  day 
Rose  with  delight  to  us  and  with  them  set, 
Must  learn  the  hateful  art,  how  to  forget. 
We,   that  did    nothing   wish   that   Heaven 

could  give 
Beyond  ourselves,  nor  did  desire  to  live 
Beyond    that    wish,   all    these    now   cancel 

must, 
As  if  not  writ  in  faith,  but  words  and  dust. 
Yet  witness  those  clear  vows  which  lovers 

make, 
W^itness    the    chaste     desires    that     never 

break 
Into  unruly  heats;  witness  that  breast 
Which  in  thy  bosom  anchored   his   whole 

rest — 

91 


A    RENUNCIATION 

'T  is  no  default  in  us :  I  dare  acquite 
Thy    maiden    faith,    thy    purpose   fair   and 

white 
As  thy  pure  self.      Cross  planets  did  envy 
Us  to  each  other,  and  Heaven  did  untie 
Faster   than    vows   could    bind.      Oh    that 

the  stars, 
When  lovers   meet,   should  stand  opposed 

in  wars ! 
Since,   then,    some    higher   destinies   com- 
mand. 
Let  us  not  strive,  nor  labour  to  withstand 
What  is  past  help.      The  longest  date  of 

grief 
Can  never  yield  a  hope  of  our  relief 
Fold  back  our  arms;  take  home  our  fruit- 
less loves. 
That   must   new  fortunes  try,    like  turtle- 
doves 
Dislodged  from  their  haunts;   we  must  in 

tears 
Unwind  a  love  knit  up  in  many  j'ears. 
In  this  last  kiss  I  here  surrender  thee 
Back  to  thyself — so  thou  again  art  free ; 
Thou  in  another,  sad  as  that,  resend 
The  truest  heart  that  lover  e'er  did  lend. 
Now  turn  from  each ;  so  fare  our  severed 

hearts 
As  the  divorced  soul  from  her  body  parts. 


92 


Exequy  on 
his  Wife 


Accept,   thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint, 

Instead  of  dirges,   this  complaint; 

And,    for    sweet     flowers    to     crown     thy 

hearse, 
Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 
From     thy     grieved     friend     whom     thou 

might'st  see 
Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 

Dear  loss !  since  thy  untimely  fate, 
My  task  hath  been  to  meditate 
On  thee,   on  thee !     Thou  art  the  book, 
The  library  whereon  I  look. 
Though    almost    blind.       For    thee,    loved 

clay, 
I  languish  on,  not  live,  the  day.   .   .   . 
Thou  hast  benighted  me;  thy  set 
This  eve  of  blackness  did  beget. 
Who  wast  my  day  (though  overcast 
Before  thou  hadst  thy  noontide  past). 
And  I  remember  must  in  tears 
Thou  scarce  hadst  seen  so  many  years 
93 


EXEQUY  ON  HIS    WIFE 

As  day  tells  hours.      By  thy  clear  sun 
My  love  and  fortune  first  did  run ; 
But  thou  wilt  never  more  appear 
Folded  within  my  liemlsphere, 
Since  both  thy  light  and  motion, 
Like  a  fled  star,  is  fallen  and  gone, 
And  'twixt  me  and  my  soul's  dear  wish 
The  earth  now  interposed  is.   .   .   . 

I  could  allow  thee  for  a  time 
To  darken  me  and  my  sad  clime ; 
Were  it  a  month,  a  year,  or  ten, 
I  would  thine  exile  live  till  then, 
And  all  that  space  my  mirth  adjourn, 
So  thou  would'st  promise  to  return, 
And  putting  off  thy  ashy  shroud 
At  length  disperse  this  sorrow's  cloud. 
But  woe  is  me!  the  longest  date 
Too  narrow  is  to  calculate 
These  empty  hopes ;  never  shall  I 
Be  so  much  blest  as  to  descry 
A  glimpse  of  thee,   till  that  day  come 
Which  shall  the  earth  to  cinders  doom, 
And  a  fierce  fever  must  calcine 
The  body  of  this  world — like  thine, 
My  little  world !     That  fit  of  fire 
Once  off,  our  bodies  shall  aspire 
To  our  souls'  bliss ;    then  we  shall  rise 
And  view  ourselves  with  clearer  e3es 
In  that  calm  region  where  no  night 
Can  hide  us  from  each  other's  sight. 
94 


EXEQUY  ON  HIS    WIFE 

Meantime   thou   hast    her,    earth!    much 
good 
May  my  harm  do  thee ;  shicc  it  stood 
With  Heaven's  will  I  might  not  call 
Her  longer  mine,   1  give  thee  all 
My  short-lived  right  and  interest 
In  her  whom  living  1  loved  best. 
Be  kind  to  her,  and  prithee  look 
Thou  write  into  thy  Doomsday  book 
Each  parcel  of  this  rarity 
Which  in  thy  casket  shrined  doth  lie, 
As  thou  wilt  answer  Him  that  lent — 
Not  gave — thee  my  dear  monument. 
So  close  the  ground,  and  'bout  her  shade 
Black  curtains  draw ;  my  bride  is  laid. 
Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 
Never  to  be  disquieted! 
My     last     good  -  night !       Thou     wilt    not 

wake 
Till   I  thy  fate  shall  overtake: 
Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 
Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 
It  so  much  loves,  and  fill  the  room 
My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 
Stay  for  me  there!     I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay — 
I  am  already  on  the  way, 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrow  breed. 
95 


EXEQUY  ON  HIS    WIFE 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree 
And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee. 
'T  is     true  —  with    shame    and    grief    I 
yield — 
Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field ; 
And  gotten  hast  the  victory 
In  thus  adventuring  to  die 
Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 
A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 
But  hark!    my  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum, 
Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come ; 
And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 
1  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 
The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear,  forgive 
The  crime — I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart, 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 


George  Herbert 


Holy  Baptism        ^         ^^ 

Since,   Lord,  to  Thee 
A  narrow  way  and  little  gate 
Is  all  the  passage,  on  my  infancy 
Thou  didst  lay  hold,  and  antedate 

My  faith  in  me. 

O,  let  me  still 
Write  Thee    "great  God",   and   me    "a 
child"; 
Let  me  be  soft  and  supple  to  Thy  will, 
Small  to  myself,  to  others  mild, 
Behither  ill. 

Although  by  stealth 
My  flesh  get  on;  yet  let  her  sister. 
My   soul,    bid    nothing    but    preserve    her 
wealth  : 
The  growth  of  flesh  is  but  a  blister; 
Childhood  is  health. 
( B 126 )  97  H 


Virtue  J^  ^ 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,   so  ctilm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


98 


Unkindness 


Lord,  make  me  coy  and  tender  to  offend: 
In  friendship,  first  I  think  if  that  agree 
Which  I  intend 
Unto  my  friend's  intent  and  end; 
I  would  not  use  a  friend  as  I  use  Thee. 

If  any  touch  my  friend  or  his  good  name, 
It  is  my  honour  and  my  love  to  free 
His  blasted  fame 
From  the  least  spot  or  thought  of  blame; 
I  could  not  use  a  friend  as  I  use  Thee. 

My  friend  may  spit  upon  my  curious  floor; 
Would  he  have  gold?   I  lend  it  instantly; 
But  let  the  poor, 
And  Thee  within  them,  starve  at  door; 
I  cannot  use  a  friend  as  I  use  Thee. 

When  that  my  friend  pretendeth  to  a  place, 

I  quit  my  interest,  and  leave  it  free ; 

But  when  Thy  grace 

Sues  for  my  heart,  I  Thee  displace; 

Nor  would  I  use  a  friend  as  I  use  Thee. 

99 


UNKINDNESS 

Yet    can    a    friend    what    Tliou    hast    done 

fulfil? 
O,  write  in  brass,   "  My  God  upon  a  tree 
His  blood  did  spill, 
Only  to  purchase  my  good-will  " ; 
Yet  use  I  not  my  foes  as  I  use  Thee. 


Love  j^  ^ 

Love  bade  me  welcome ;  yet  my  soul  drew 
back, 

Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But  quick-eyed  Love,  observing  me  grow 
slack 

From  my  first  entrance  in, 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning 
If  I  lacked  anything. 

"A   guest,"    I    answered,    "worthy  to    be 
here": 

Love  said,  "You  shall  be  he." 
"  I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful?    Ah,  my  dear! 

I  cannot  look  on  Thee." 
Love  took  my  hand,  and  smiling  did  reply, 

' '  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ? " 

"Truth,   Lord;    but  I  have  marred  them; 
let  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve." 
"And  know  you   not,"  says   Love,    "who 
bore  the  blame?" 

"  My  dear,  then  I  will  serve." 
"You   must  sit  down,"  says   Lov^e,   "and 
taste  My  meat." 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 

lOI 


The  Pulley         j^  J^ 

When  God  eit  first  made  man, 
Having'  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 
"Let  us,"  said  He,   "pour  on  him  all  we 

can ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 
Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way, 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honour, 

pleasure ; 
When    almost   all    was   out,  God    made   a 

stay. 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure. 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature: 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

"Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness; 
Let  him  i)c  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast." 

I02 


The  Collar         ^  j^ 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  "  No  more; 

I  will  abroad. 
What,  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine? 
My   lines    and    lite    are    free;    free   as    the 

road, 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall   I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine 
Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it;  there  was  corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me? 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it. 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay?  all  blasted, 

All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart;  but  there  is  fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On   double   pleasures;  leave   thy  cold   dis- 
pute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands, 
103 


THE   COLLAR 

Which    petty    thoughts    have    made;    and 

made  to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 
While   thou   didst  wink   and  wouldst   not 
see. 

Away!  take  heed; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in   thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy 
fears ; 

He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved  and  grew  more  fierce  and 
wild 

At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "Child"; 
And  I  replied,  "My  Lord." 


104 


Life  ^  ^ 

I  made  a  posy  while  the  day  ran  by: 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band; 
But  Time  did  beckon  to  tlie  flowers,  and 

they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  withered  in  my  hand. 

My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my 

heart; 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good  part 

Time's  gentle  admonition; 
Who    did    so    sweetly    Death's    sad    taste 

convey. 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day. 
Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 

Farewell,  dear  flowers;  sweetly  your  time 

ye  spent. 
Fit  while  ye  lived   for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death  for  cures. 
I    follow    straight,    without    complaints    or 

grief. 
Since  if  my  scent  be  good,   I  care  not  if 
It  be  as  short  as  yours. 
105 


Misery  j^  j^ 

Lord,  let  the  angels  praise  Tliy  name: 

Man  is  a  foolish  thing,  a  foolish  thing; 
Folly  and  sin  play  all  his  game; 

His    house    still  burns,  and   yet  he  still 
doth  sing — 

Man  is  but  grass, 
He  knows  it — "Fill  the  glass." 

How  canst  Thou  brook  his  foolishness? 
Why,  he  '11  not   lose  a  cup  of  drink  for 
Thee: 
Bid  him  but  temper  his  excess. 

Not  he:  he  knows  where  he  can  better  be — 
As  he  will  swear — 
Than  to  serve  Thee  in  fear. 

What  strange  pollutions  doth  he  wed. 
And   make    his    own !    as    if  none   knew 
but  he. 
No  man  shall  beat  into  his  head 
That   Thou    within    his    curtains    drawn 
canst  see: 

"  The-y  are  of  cloth 
Where  never  yet  rame  moth." 
io6 


MISERY 

The  best  of  men,  turn  but  Thy  hand 
For    one    poor    minute,     stumble    at    a 
pin ; 
They  would  not  have  their  actions  scanned, 
Nor    any    sorrow    tell    them    that    they 
sin, 

Though  it  be  small. 
And  measure  not  the  fall. 

They  quarrel  Thee,  and  would  give  over 
The  bargain    made   to    serve  Thee ;   but 
Th}    lo\e 
Holds  them  unto  it,  and  doth  cover 
Their    follies    with    the    wings    of    Thy 
mild  Dove, 

Not  suffering  those 
Who  would,   to  be  Thy  foes. 

My  God,  man  cannot  praise  Thy  name: 
Thou  art  all  brightness,  perfect  purity; 
The  sun  holds  down  his  head  for  shame, 
Dead  with   eclipses,    when   we  speak  of 
Thee: 

How  shall  infection 
Presume  on  Thy  perfection? 

As  dirty  hands  foul  all  they  touch, 

And  those  things  most  which  are   most 
pure  and  fine, 

I07 


MISERY 

So  our  clay-hearts,  even  when  we  crouch 
To    sing^   Tliy   praises,    make    them    less 
divine: 

Yet  either  this 
Or  none  Thy  portion  is. 

Man  cannot  serve  Thee:  let  him  go 
And  serve  the  swine— there,  that  is  his 
delight: 
He  doth  not  like  this  virtue,  no; 

Give  him  his  dirt  to  wallow  in  all  night 
"These  preachers  make 
His  head  to  shoot  and  ache." 

O  foolish  man!  where  are  thine  eyes? 
How  hast  thou  lost  them  in  a  crowd  of 
cares ! 
Thou  pull'st  the  rug,  and  wilt  not  rise, 
No,   not   to  purchase  the  whole  pack  of 
stars : 

"There  let  them  shine; 
Thou  must  go  sleep  or  dine." 

The  bird  that  sees  a  dainty  bower 

Made  in   the  tree,  where  she  was  wont 
to  sit, 
Wonders  and  sings,  but  not  His  power 
\Vhomade  thearbour;  thisexceeds  her  wit. 
But  man  doth  know 
The  Spring  whence  all  things  flow: 

io8 


MISERY 

And  yet,  as  though  he  knew  it  not, 

His    knowledge     winks,     and     lets     his 
humours  reign; 
They  make  his  life  a  constant  blot, 

And    all    the    blood    of  God    to    run    in 
vain. 

Ah,  wretch!  what  verse 
Can  thy  strange  ways  rehearse? 

Indeed,  at  first  man  was  a  treasure, 

A  box  of  jewels,  shop  of  rarities, 
A  ring  whose  posy  was  "my  pleasure"; 
He  was  a  garden  in  a  Paradise; 
Glory  and  grace 
Did  crown  his  heart  and  face. 

But  sin  hath  fooled  him;  now  he  is 

A  lump  of  ilesh,  without  a  foot  or  wing 
To  raise  him  to  a  glimpse  of  bliss; 

A    sick-tossed    vessel,    dashing    on    each 
thing, 

Nay,  his  own  self: 
My  God,  I  mean  myself. 


109 


Easter 


I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  Th)-  way, 
I  got  me  boughs  of  many  a  tree; 

But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 
And  brought'st   Thy  sweets  along  with 
Thee. 

Yet  though  my  flowers  be  lost,  they  say 
A  heart  can  never  come  too  late; 

Teach  it  to  sing  Thy  praise  this  da}-, 
And  then  this  day  my  life  shall  date. 


Discipline 


Throw  away  Thy  rod, 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath; 

0  my  God, 
Take  the  gentle  path! 

For  my  heart's  desire 
Unto  Thine  is  bent: 

1  aspire 
To  a  full  consent. 

Not  a  word  or  look 
I  affect  to  own. 
But  by  book, 
And  Thy  Book  alone. 

Though  I  fail,   I  weep; 
Though  I  halt  in  pace, 
Yet  I  creep 
To  the  throne  of  grace. 

Then  let  wrath  remove; 
Love  will  do  the  deed; 
For  with  love 
Stony  hearts  will  bleed. 


DISCIPLINE 

Love  is  swift  of  foot; 
Love  's  a  man  of  war, 
And  can  shoot, 
And  can  hit  from  far. 

Who  can  'scape  his  bow? 

That  which  wrought  on  Thee, 
Brought  Thee  low, 
Needs  must  work  on  me. 

Throw  away  Thy  rod; 

Though  man  frailties  hath. 
Thou  art  God; 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath ! 


A  Dialogue  ^  j^ 

Man.   Sweetest  Saviour,   if  my  soul 

Were  but  worth  the  having, 
Quickly  should  I  then  control 

Any  thought  of  waving. 
But  when  all  my  care  and  pains 
Cannot  give  the  name  of  gains 
To  Thy  wretch  so  full  of  stains, 
What  delight  or  hope  remains? 

Saviour.  What,  child,  is  the  balance  thine, 
Thine  the  poise  and  measure? 

If  I  say,   "Thou  shalt  be  Mine", 
Finger  not  My  treasure. 

What  the  gains  in  having  thee 

Do  amount  to,  only  He 

Who  for  man  was  sold  can  see; 

That  transferred  th'  accounts  to  Me. 

Man.   But  as  I  can  see  no  merit 

Leading  to  this  favour, 
So  the  way  to  fit  me  for  it 

Is  beyond  my  savour. 

(8X26)  113  I 


A    DIALOGUE 

As  the  reason,   then,  is  Thine, 
So  the  way  is  none  of  mine; 
I  disclaim  the  whole  design; 
Sin  disclaims  and  I  resign. 

Saviour.  That  is  all:  if  that  I  could 

Get  without  repining, 
And  My  clay,   My  creature,  would 

Follow  My  resigning; 
That  as  I  did  freely  part 
With  My  glory  and  desert, 
Left  all  joys  to  feel  all  smart — 
Man.  Ah,    no    more !    Thou    break'st    my 
heart ! 


114 


James   Shirley 


Equality  j^  J^ 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,   not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And     plant    fresh     laurels     where     they 
kill: 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 


EQUALITY 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  might}  deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds: 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


ii6 


Anonymous 


Lullaby 


Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains; 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste. 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets; 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling 

When  fair  at  eve  he  sets? 
Rest  you,  then,  rest,  sad  eyes, 
Melt  not  in  weeping, 
While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  soft'y  lies 
Sleeping. 
117 


Sir  William   Davenant 


Morning  j^  ^ 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
And  climbing  shakes  his  dewy  wings, 

He  takes  your  window  for  the  east. 
And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings; 

Awake,  awake,  the  morn  will  never  rise. 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The    merchant    bows    unto    the    seaman's 
star, 
The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season 
takes ; 
But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are, 
Who    look   for   day   before   his    mistress 
wakes ; 
Awake,  awake,  break  through  your  veils  of 

lawn ! 
Then   draw  your  curtains   and   begin  the 
dawn. 

119 


Edmund  Waller 


The  Rose  ^  -^ 

Go,  lovely  rose! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


Tell  her  that 's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 


Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  fortii, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 


THE  ROSE 

Then  die !  that  she 
The  common  uite  of  all  thinijs  rare 

May  read  in  thee: 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 


To  Vandike         ^  -^ 

Rare  artisan !    whose  pencil  moves 
Not  our  delights  alone,  but  loves; 
From  thy  shop  of  beauty  we 
Slaves  return,  that  entered  free. 
The  heedless  lover  does  not  know 
Whose    eyes    they    are    that    wound    him 

so; 
But,  confounded  with  thy  art, 
Asks  her  name  who  has  his  heart. 
Another  who  did  long  refrain 
Feels  his  old  wound  bleed  fresh  again, 
With  dear  remembrance  of  that  face 
Where  now  he  reads  new  hope  of  grace; 
Nor  scorn  nor  cruelty  does  find, 
But  gladly  suffers  a  false  wind 
To  blow  the  ashes  of  despair 
From  the  reviving  brand  of  care: 
Fool,  that  forgets  her  stubborn  look 
This  softness  from  thy  finger  took. 
Strange  that  thy  hand  should  not  inspire 
The  beauty  only,  but  the  fire; 
Not  the  form  alone,  and  grace, 
But  act  and  power  of  a  face. 
123 


TO    V AND  IKE 

May'st  thou  yet  thyself  as  well 
As  all  the  world  besides  excel; 
So  you  the  unfeigned  truth  rehearse 
(That  I  may  make  it  live  in  verse) 
Why  thou  couldst  not  at  one  essay 
That  face  to  after-times  convey, 
Which  this  admires;   was  it  thy  wit 
To  make  her  oft  before  thee  sit? 
Confess,  and  we'll  forgive  thee  this; 
For  who  would  not  repeat  that  bliss, 
And  frequent  sight  of  such  a  dame 
Buy  with  the  hazard  of  his  fame? 
Yet  who  can  tax  thy  blameless  skill 
Though  thy  good  hand  had  failed  still. 
When  Nature's  self  so  often  errs? 
She  for  this  many  thousand  years 
Seems  to  have  practised  with  much  care 
To  frame  the  race  of  woman  fair; 
Yet  never  could  a  perfect  birth 
Produce  before  to  grace  the  earth, 
Which  waxed  old  ere  it  could  see 
Her  that  amazed  thy  art  and  thee. 

But  now  't  is  done,  O  let  me  know 
Where  those  immortal  colours  grow. 
That  could  this  deathless  piece  compose 
In  lilies  or  the  fading  rose? 
No,  for  this  theft  thou  hast  climbed  higher 
Than  did  Prometheus  for  his  fire. 


124 


On  the 

Friendship  ^  ^ 

betwixt  two 

Ladies 

Tell  me,  lovely  loving  pair, 
Why  so  kind  and  so  severe? 

Why  so  careless  of  our  care, 
Only  to  yourselves  so  dear? 

By  this  cunning  change  of  hearts. 
You  the  pow'r  of  love  control; 

While  the  boy's  deluded  darts 
Can  arrive  at  neither  soul. 

For  in  vain  to  either  breast 
Still  beguiled  love  does  come 

Where  he  finds  a  foreign  guest, 
Neither  of  your  hearts  at  home. 

Debtors  thus  with  like  design, 
Where  they  never  mean  to  pay, 

That  they  may  the  law  decline. 
To  some  friend  make  all  away. 
125 


FRIENDSHIP 

Not  the  silver  doves  that  Hy, 
Yok'd  in  Citharea's  car; 

Not  the  wings  that  lift  so  high 
And  convey  her  son  so  far, 

Are  so  lovely,  sweet  and  fair. 
Or  do  more  ennoble  love; 

Are  so  choicely  matched  a  pair, 
Or  with  more  content  do  move. 


X26 


Of  Loving 

at  First  J^  J^ 

Sight 

Not  caring  to  observe  the  wind, 

Or  the  new  sea  explore, 
Snatched  from  myself,  how  far  behind 

Already  I  behold  the  shore! 

May  not  a  thousand  dangers  sleep 
In  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  deep? 
No,  't  is  so  rockless  and  so  clear 
That  the  rich  bottom  does  appear 
Paved  all  with  precious  things,  not  torn 
From  shipwrecked  vessels,  but  there  born. 

Sweetness,  truth,  and  every  grace 
Which  time  and  use  are  wont  to  teach. 
The  eye  may  in  a  moment  reach, 
And  read  distinctly  in  her  face. 

Some  other  nymphs,   witli  colours  faint, 
And  pencil  slow,  may  Cupid  paint, 
127 


OF  LOVING  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

And  a  weak  heart  in  time  destroy. — 
She  has  a  stamp,  and  prints  the  Boy; 
Can  with  a  single  look  inflame 
The  coldest  breast,  the  rudest  tame. 


128 


Thomas  Randolph 


Mistress 

I  have  a  mistress,  for  perfections  rare 
In  every  eye,  but  in  my  thoughts  most  fair. 
Like  tapers  on  the  altar  shine  her  eyes; 
Her  breath  is  the  perfume  of  sacrifice; 
And  wheresoe'er  my  fancy  would  begin, 
Still  her  perfection  lets  religion  in. 
We  sit  and  talk,  and  kiss  away  the  hours 
As    chastely    as    the    morning    dews    kiss 

flowers. 
I   touch  her,  like    my  beads,  with   devout 

care. 
And  come  unto  my  courtship  as  my  prayer. 


(  B  126  )  129 


Charles   Best 


A  Sonnet  of 
the  Moon 


Look   how  the   pale   Queen   of  the   silent 
night 
Doth    cause   the   ocean   to   attend   upon 
her, 
And  he,  as  long  as  she  is  in  his  sight, 
With  his  full  tide  is  ready  her  to  honour. 

But  when  the  silver  waggon  of  the  Moon 

Is  mounted  up  so  high  he  cannot  follow, 

The  sea  calls  home  his  crystal  waves  to 

moan, 

And    with    low    ebb    doth    manifest    his 

sorrow. 

So    you    that    are    the    sovereign    of    my 
heart. 
Have  all  my  joys  attending  on  your  w^ill, 
131 


A    SONNET  OF  THE  MOON 

My  joys  low  ebbing  when  you  do  depart, 
When  you    return,    their  tide    my   heart 
doth  fill. 

So  as  you  come,  and  as  you  do  depart, 
Joys  ebb  and  flow  within  my  tender  heart. 


132 


John  Milton 


Hymn 

on  Christ's  j^  j^ 

Nativity 

It  was  the  winter  wild 
While  the  heaven-born  Child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies: 
Nature  in  awe  to  Him 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathise: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  para- 
mour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide   her  guilty  front  with  Innocent 
snow; 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The    saintly    veil    of    maiden    white    to 
throw; 

133 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

Confounded,   that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should    look    so    near    upon    her    foul    de- 
formities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace; 
She,    crowned    with    olive    green,    came 
softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere. 
His  ready  harbinger, 
With    turtle    wing    the    amorous    clouds 
dividing; 
/\nd  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal   peace  through  sea 
and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around: 
The    idle    spear   and    shield    were    high 
uphung; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 
The   trumpet   spake    not    to   the   armed 
throng; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord 
was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

134 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smootlily  tlie  waters  kist, 
VVHiispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean 
Wlio  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave. 
While  birds  of  calm   sit   brooding  on   the 
charmed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending    one    way    their     precious     in- 
jfluence; 
And  will  not  take  (heir  flight 
For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or     Lucifer    that     often    warned    them 
thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow. 
Until  their  Lord  Himself  hespake,  and  bid 
them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room. 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame. 
As  his  inferior  flame 
The    new -enlightened    world    no    more 
should  need; 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axletree 
could  bear. 

135 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST S  NATIVITY 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  than 
That  the  mighty  Pan 
Was    kindly    come    to    live    with    them 
below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that    did  their   silly  thoughts    so 
busy  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 
As  never  was  by  mortal  fingers  strook— 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took ; 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat  the  airy  region  thrill- 
ing, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  ful- 
filling; 

136 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Heaven  and  Earth  in  hap- 
pier union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long   beams   the  shamefaced 
night  arrayed; 
The  helmed  Cherubim 
And  sworded  Seraphim 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings 
displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire. 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new- 
born Heir. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made 
But   when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning 
sung. 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set. 
And  the  well-balanced   world  on  hinges 
hung; 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And   bid    the   weltering    waves    their   oozy 
channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres ! 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
^37 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  ill  melodious  time; 
And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ 
blow; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  sym- 
phony. 


Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run   back   and   fetch  the   age 
of  gold; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly 
mould; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And   leave  her   dolorous    mansions   to  the 
peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a   rainbow;    and,    like  glories 
wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With    radiant    feet    the     tissued    clouds 
down  steering; 

^^8 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will    open    wide    the    gates    ot    her    high 
palace-hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No ; 
This  must  not  yet  be  so; 
The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss; 
So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify: 
Yet  first,   to  those  ychained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep. 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 
While    the    red     fire    and    smouldering 
clouds  outbrake: 
The  aged  Earth  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast 
Shall    from    the    surface    to    the    centre 
shake, 
When  at  the  world's  last  sessi6n, 
The    dreadful   Judge    in    middle    air    shall 
spread  His  Throne. 


And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

139 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

But  now  begins ;  for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  Drag-on  underground, 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words 
deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 
leaving: 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  pro- 
phetic cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore 
A    voice    of    weeping    heard    and    loud 
lament; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale. 
The    parting    Genius    is    with    sighing 
sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn. 
140 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

In  consecrated  earth 
And  on  the  holy  hearth 
The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  mid- 
night plaint; 
In  urns,  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights    the    Flamens    at   their   service 
quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While    each    peculiar    Powder    forgoes    his 
wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  God  of  Pales- 
tine; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now    sits    not    girt    with    tapers'    holy 
shine; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn: 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,   fled, 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue: 

In  vain  w^ith  cymbals'  ring 

They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue; 
141 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

The  brutish  g-ods  of  Nile  as  fast, 

Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
TrampUng  the    unshowered   grass   with 
lowings  loud: 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest; 
Not    but    profoundest    Hell    can    be    his 
shroud; 
In  vain  with  tinibrelled  anthems  dark 
The   sable-stoled   sorcerers   bear   his   wor- 
shipped ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky 
eyn; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide, 
Not    Typhon     huge     ending     in    snaky 
twine: 
Our  Babe,  to  show  His  Godhead  true, 
Can  in   His  swaddling   bands   control   the 
damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
142 


HYMN  ON  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several 
grave; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly    after    the    night-steeds,    leaving  their 
moon-loved  maze. 

But  see  !    the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest; 
Time   is,  our  tedious   song   should    here 
have  ending: 
Heaven's  )-oungest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car. 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending: 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  Angels   sit  In  order  ser- 
viceable. 


143 


L'Allegro  ^  ^ 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and 
sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell 

Where   brooding    Darkness    spreads   his 
jealous  wings 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There    under    ebon    shades,    and    low- 
browed rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
V/hom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wnnd  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying — 
144 


L' ALLEGRO 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew 
F'illed  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste    thee.    Nymph,    and    bring    with 
thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  jollity. 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles. 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides : — 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
i\nd  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow 
Through  the  sweetbriar,  or  the  vine. 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine: 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 

(B126)  145  L 


V ALLEGRO 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  tliin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight    mine    eye    hath    caught    new 
pleasures 
Wliilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
146 


V ALLEGRO 

Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,   met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  vi'ith  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday, 
Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail: 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat  :— 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 
And  he  by  Friar's  lantern  led; 
Tells  how  the  grudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn, 
147 


r ALLEGRO 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
148 


V ALLEGRO 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The    melting    voice    through    mazes    run- 
ning, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber,  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  1  mean  to  live. 


149 


II  Penseroso        .^  -^ 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bestead 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And    fancies    fond    with    gaudy    shapes 
possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the   gay  motes  that  people  the  sun- 
beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The     fickle     pensioners     of     Morpheus' 
train. 

But  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore  to  our  w^eaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
150 


IL  PENSEROSO 

The    sea -nymphs,    and    their    powers    of- 
fended : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta, 'long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
His  daughter  she;  in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain : 
Oft  in  glirhmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train. 
And  sable  stole  of  Cipres  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn : 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies. 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 
And    join     with     thee     calm     Peace,     and 

Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing : 


IL   PENSEROSO 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure: — 

But  first  and  chiefest  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fierj^-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak. 

Sweet  bird,   that   shunn'st  the    noise    of 

folly. 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy ! 
Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 
I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 
To  behold  the  wandering  Moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through      the      heaven's     wide      pathless 

w^ay. 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 
I  hear  the  far-ofl"  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
152 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still,  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Drew  Iron  tears  down   Pluto's  cheek 
And    made     Hell     orranl     what     Love    did 

seek ! 
Or  call  up  him  that   kit  hall-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which   the  Tartar  king  did  ride: 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 
Thus,    Night,    oft    see    me    in    thy    pale 
career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt. 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begfins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
154 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe,   with   heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haujit. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  ma\   look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  j^arish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thii^^h, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  singf, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

W^ith  such  consort  as  they  keep 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid : 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high-embowed  roof, 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  stoned  windows  richly  dight 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
155 


IL  PENSEROSO 

DIssolsc*  iiu-  Into  ec.>lasit'>, 

And  brini,^  all   Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at   last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful   hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  ever}'  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,   Melancholy,  give, 
And   1    with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


iS6 


Lycidas 

ELKGY   UN    A    FRIEND 
DKOWNED    IN    THIi 
IRISH   CHANNEL,    1637 

Yet    once    more,    C)    ye    laurels,    and    once 

more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,   with  ivy  never  sere, 
I    come   to   pluck  your    berries    harsh   and 

crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your   leaves   before  the  melluwing 

year. 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  liien,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from   beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth 
spring ; 

157 


LYCTDAS 

Be^in,    and    somewhat    luudly    ^\mo|>    the 

string. 
Hence  wilh  drnial   \ain  and  coy  excuse: 
So  may  some  gentle   Muse 
With     lucky    words     lavour    ni)     destined 

urn  ; 
And,   as  In-  passes,   turn 
And  hid   fair  peace  be  to  m\  sahlr  shroud. 

Fcti    we  were   nursed   upon   the  >eh"->ame 

hiil, 
Fed    the    same    flock    by    fountain,    .shade, 

and  rill : 
Together  both,  ere  tin-  high  law  ns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-lield,  and  both  together  heard 
What   time   the  grey-fly  winds   her  sultry 

horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with    the  fresh  dews 

of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  e\ening  bright 
Toward    heaven's   descent    had    sloped    his 

westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mule, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute. 
Rough    Satyrs    danced,    and    Fauns    with 

cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent 

long ; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 
158 


LVCIDAS 

But,  oh!    llic   htavy   change,   now    ihou 

art  gom-, 
Now     tliou     art     i^one    and     never    must 

return  ! 
Thee,  Sliepherd,  thee  tlie  woods  and  desert 

ca\es 
Witli    wild    tliymi'    and    the    j^addint^    \ine 

o'er^rown, 
And  all   their  eclK)es,   mourn: 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  ^reen 
Shall   now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanninj^    their   joyous    leaves    lu    tiiy   soft 

lays. 
As  killing"  as  tli«'  eankcr  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  th«.'  weanlini,'^  herds  that 

graze, 
Or  frost   to  flowers,   that   their   g^ay  ward- 
robe wear 
When   first  the  uhite-thorn   blows; 
Such,   Lyeidas,   lliy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where    were    ye,     Nymphs,     when     the 

remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lyeidas? 
Kor  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids, 

lie. 
Nor  on  the  shaj^^gy  top  of  IMona  high, 
Nor  yet   where    Deva  spreads    her  wizara 

stream  : 

159 


LVCIDAS 

Ay  me  I    1    fondly  droam 

Had    ye   been    there   .    .    .    Vov   wliat    could 

that   have  done? 
What  could  llie  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus 

bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  lor  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout   that  made  the  hideous 

roar 
His    gory    visage    down    the    stream    was 

sent, 
Down    the    swift    Hebrus    to    the    Lesbian 

shore? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To   tend   the   homely,  ^lighted,    shepherd's 

trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  dolh 

raise 
(That  last  infirm  it  v  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But   the    fair   guerdon    when    we    hope   to 

find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes   the   blind   Fury  with   the  abhorred 

shears, 

1 60 


LYCIDAS 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "  But  not  the 

praise," 
Phoebus    rephed,    and    touched    my    trem- 

bhng  ears ; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant   that  grows  on  mortal 

soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies: 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure 

eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jo\c; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so    much    fame    in    hea\en    expect    thy 

meed." 

O  fountain  Arelhuse,  and  thou  honoured 

flood, 
Smooth -sliding     Mincius,    crowiud     with 

vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon 

winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle 

swain? 
And  questioned  every  gu^t  of  rugged  winds 
That    blows    from    off    each    beaked    pro- 
montory. 
( B  126 )  161  M 


LYCIDAS 

They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  l)rini;s, 

That  not    a   blast    was    iVoni    his   dungeon 

strayed  ; 
The  air  was  cahn,   and  on   the  level   brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all   her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perhdious  bark 
Built  in  the  eelipse,  and  i  iggi-d  with  eurses 

dark, 
That    sunk    so    low    that    sacied    head    ol 

thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  tooting 
slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge 

Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the 
edge 

Like  to  that  sanguine  llower  inseribed 
with  woe, 

"Ah!  who  hath  rei't,"  quoth  he,  "  my  dear- 
est pledge?" 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go 

The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,   the  iron  shuts  amain); 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  be- 
spake  : 

"How  well  could  1  have  spared  for  thee, 
young  swain, 

Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

l63 


LYCIDAS 

Creep    and    intrude    and    climb    into    the 

fold? 
Ot  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than    how    to    scram  I 'le    at    the    shearers' 

feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  truest. 
Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know 

how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else 

the  least 
That    to    the    faithful    herdman's    art    be- 
longs ! 
What    recks   it    them?      What    need    they? 

They  are  sped  ; 
And  when  they  list,   tlnir  lean  and  llashy 

songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  ot  wretched 

straw ; 
The    hungry   sheep   look   up,   and    are   not 

fed, 
But,  swoln   with  wind   and   the  rank  mist 

they  draw. 
Rot  inwardly,  and   foul  contagion  spread: 
Besides    what    the    grim    wolf    with    privy 

paw- 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  : 
But     that     two  -  handed     engine     at     the 

door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 

more." 

163 


LYCIDAS 

Return,  Alpheus;  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thv  streams;   roturii,  Sicilian 

Must', 
And   call    iIk-   \aks,    and    hid    ih^ni    iililur 

cast 
Their    bells    and    Howerets    of  a    thousand 

hues. 
Vc  valleys   low,   where    tlu    niikl    whispers 

use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton   uinds,  and  i;ush- 

ing  brooks 
On  whose  fresh   lajj  the  swarl   star  sparely 

looks ; 
Throw    hither    all    your    quaint    enamelled 

eyes 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the   honeyed 

showers 
And    purple    all    the    ground    with    vernal 

flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted   cow-toe,   and   pale  jessamine, 
The    white    pink,    and    the    pansy   freaked 

with  jet. 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  wood- 
bine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 

head, 
And    every    flower     that    sad     embroidery 

wears : 

164 


LVCIDAS 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  datTadillies  fill  lli.ir  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where   Lycid 

lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let    our    frail     thoui^^hts    dally    with    talst; 

surmise : 
Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sound- 
ing seas 
Wash    far   away,    where'er    thy   hones   are 

hurled, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy   Hebrides, 
WMicre  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whehninj^ 

tide, 
Visitest     the     bottom    of     the     monstrous 

world ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied. 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of   Bellerus  old. 
Where    the    great    Vision    of    the   guarded 

mount 
Looks    toward    Namancos    and     Hayona's 

hold ; 
Look    homeward.    Angel,    now,    ami    nirlt 

with  ruth : 
And,     O    ye    dolphins,    waft     the    hapless 

youth  ! 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep 
no  more, 
For  Lycida^.  your  sorrow,   is  not  dead, 
16; 


LY'CWAS 

Sunk    tlioiii^li    he    be    honratli    the    wattTV 

tloor : 
So  sinks  the  day-slar  in   the  ocean   bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  dioopini;^  head 
And     tricks     his     beams,     and     with     new- 

spani^lcd   ore 
Fhinies    in    lh«'    forflicad    ot    ihr    morning; 

sky  : 
So   Lycidas   sunk    k)\v,    but    niountrd    hii^'^li 
Throui^h    the    dear    mi^lit    ol     Him    that 

w.ilkt'd   the  waves; 
Where,    other    tj-roves    and    other    streams 

alon^, 
With  nectar  pure  liis  oozy  locks  he  kives. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song- 
In    the    blest    kini^'-doms    meek   of  joy  and 

love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That    sint;,    and     sinjj^ini^    in     their    g^lory 

move. 
And    wipe    the    tears    for    ever    from     lils 

eyes. 
Now,     Lycidas,     the    shepherds    weep    no 

more ; 
Henceforth    thou    art    the    Genius    of    the 

shore. 
In    thy    larg-e    recompense,    and    shalt    be 

g^ood 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilc»us  flood. 
1 66 


LYCIDAS 

Tlius    san.t(    tli»'    uncoulli    swain    to    llie 

oaks  and  rills, 
Whik'  tlic  sllll  morn  \\v\\\  out  with  sandak 

gre\- ; 
Hi'    touched    tlic    tender    stops    of   various 

quills, 
With    oaf^er   ihoui^ht    vvarMin^^    ills    Doric 

lay  : 
And    now    th«-    sun    iiad    strctclu'd    out    all 

the   hills, 
And   now  was  dropt   into  the  western  hay: 
At   last   he  rose,  and   twitched   his  mantle 

hlue : 
To-morrow   tc>   fresh    woods,    and   pastures 

new. 


167 


On  his  ^  ^ 

Blindness 


When   I   consider  how  iny  HL;ht  is  spent 
Krt'    half   my   days,    in    thi^   dark    world 

and   wide, 
And    tliat   one    taleni    wliich    is   death   to 
hide 
Lodg^ed    witli   ine   useless,   tluni^'^li   my  soul 

more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  .Maki>r,  and  present 
M\     true    account,     lesi      lie     returnin>4 

chide, — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  lij^ht  denit'd? 
I   fondly  ask: — But    Patience,   to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies :  God  doth  not 
need 
Either  man's   works,   or  His  own    ^<ifl^; 
who  best 
Bear   His  mild   yoke,   they  serve   Him 
best:  His  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed 
And    post   o'er  land    and    ocean   without 
rest : 
They  also  serve   who   only   stand   and 
wait. 


x68 


On  his  De-  ^ 

ceased  Wife 


Methou^^lU    I    saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Hrouj^lU    lo   me    liki-   Alkeslis    from    the 

grave, 
VV'hom    Jove's    great    son    to    h«r    glad 
husband   gave, 
Rescued   from  dealli   by  force,  though  pale 

and  faint. 
Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  >|)ot  of  child- 
bed taint 
Purification  in  the  Old   Law  did  save, 
And   such   as  yet   once   more    I    trust   to 
have 
Full    sight    of    htr   in    Heaven    without    re- 
straint, 
Came    vested    all    in    white,    pure    as    her 
mind ; 
Her  face   was  veiled,  yet    tu   my   fancied 
sight 
Love,    sweetness,    goodness   in   \\vr  person 
shined 
So  clear  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But  oh!  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I     waked,     she    fled,    and    day    brout^ht 
back   mv  night. 

169 


On  Shakespeare         j^         j^ 

WHiat    needs     my     Shakt'sprarc,     k)r     his 

honoured  bones, 
The  labour  of  an  aj^e  in   pilid  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  rcliques  should  be  hl»l 
Under  a  star-y-poinlinj;^  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  mcmorv,   j^rcat  heir  of  fanu'. 
What    need'st    thou   such   weak   witness  of 

thy  name? 
Tlu)u   in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built   thyself  a  livelong   monument. 
For  whilst,  to  shame  of  slow-endeavourinj^ 

art 
Thy    i-asy    numbers    How,    and    that    <'ach 

heart 
Hath  from  the  leav(\s  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression 

took, 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itst^f  berea\  int;-. 
Dost     make    us     marble     with     too    much 

conceiving- ; 
And  so  sepulchered  in  such,  pomp  dost  lie, 
That   king's   for  sucli  a   tomb  would   wish 

to  die. 


170 


Song  on 
May  Morning 


Now    th»'  hrlj^^ht   iiiornin«^    star,   clay'>    liar- 

Comes  dancini^  from  iho   Kasl,   and   leads 
with  her 

Thr  (lower)    Mas',  who  from  hi-r  j:4rit'n  lap 
throws 

Tlv*  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,   bounteous   May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  younj^  desire! 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast   thy  blessini,'^. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee  and  wish  thee   lontf. 


17X 


Invocation 
to  Sabrina 

FROM    COMUS 

Sabrina  fair! 

Listen,   wluTc  thou   art   sitlini^, 
Under  the  t^'hi.ssy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  oi   lilies  knitting 
The   loose   train   of  thine   amber  -  dripping 

hair. 
Listen  for  dear  honinir'^.  sake, 
Goddess  ol  the  silver  lake, 

Listen   antl   sa\e  ! 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us. 
In  name  ot  great  Oceanus, 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majt-slic  paci- 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look. 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook ; 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell. 
And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell ; 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 
By  Tlietis'  tinsel-slippered  feet, 
And  the  songs  of  sirens  sweet ; 
172 


LWOCATIOX    TO   SABRIXA 

By  dead   Parthenope's  dtar  loinb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 
Wlierewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks; 
By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance; 
Rise,   rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From   thy  coral-paven  bed. 
And  bridle  in   thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen  and  save ! 


173 


Invocation 
to  Echo 

FROM    COMUS 

Swcfl    Kclic,    .-,u»<it-i    N\in()h,    th.it   liv'st 
unseen 
Within  thine  airy  >\\v\\ 
V>\  -slow   Meander's  niarj^aiit  f;rern, 
Anl   in   the  violet-enibroidend   \ale, 

W'liere  llie   love-lorn   nii^^htinj^Mle 
Nii^hlly    Id    lliee   her   sad    >on,i^^    inourticth 

well  ; 
Canst   thou   not  tell   nie  ol  a  sinL,He  pair 
That   likest   thy    Narcissus  are? 
O,  if  thou  have 

Hid  them  in  some  Howery  cave, 
Tell   me  but   where, 
Sweet    Queen  of   Parley,    dauj;liter   of    the 

Sphere ! 
So  mayest  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's 
harmonies. 


VIA 


The  Revel 


FROM    COMU^ 


Tlu'  stai    that  bid;>  llu-  sIk  phcrd  told 
Now  the  top  of  Heaven  doth  hold, 
And  the  i^ilded  car  oi  day 
His  j^Mowinj^  axle  doth  allay- 
In   tlic  stet'|)  Atlantic  stn-ani, 
And  the  slope  sun  his  u[)\vard  beam 
Shoots  aj^ainst   the  dusky  pole, 
Pacinj4^  toward  the  other  j^^oal 
Of  his  chambtr  in   thr   Kasl. 
Meanwhile  wtlconu-  joy  and   feast, 
Midni^'ht  shout  and  revelry, 
Tipsy  dance  and  jollity. 
Hraid  your  locks  with   ro.sy   twine, 
Oioppin^  odours,  dropping   \sine. 
Rigour  now  is  gone  to  bed, 
And  advice,   with  scrupulous  head. 
Strict  age,  and  sour  severity 
With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 
We  that  are  ot  purer  fire 
Imitate  the  starry  quire. 
Who  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 
175 


THE  REVEL 

The  sounds  and  seas,   willi  all   their  finny 

drove 
Now    to    the    moon    in    wavering-    morrice 

nio\e, 
And  on   the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves; 
By  dimpled   hrook,   and  fountain  brim 
The     wood-nymphs     decked     with     d.iisies 

trim 
Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep; 
W'h^'^  hath   nij^ht  to  do  with   sleep? 


176 


The  Attendant 
Spirit 


FROM    COMUS 


To  the  ocean  now  I   fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  He 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air, 
AH  amid  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and   bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring; 
The  Graces  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring. 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells. 
And  west  winds  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,   that  blow- 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purpled  scarf  can  show, 

(bij6)  177  N 


THE  ATTENDANT  SPIRIT 

And   (Irciulio   uilli    Illysiaii   (l«\v 

(Li^t,    inorlals,   if  your  rarr>  be  true) 

Reels  of  hyaciiuli  and  roses, 

W'iiere  youiiij  Adonis  oft   rep<i>es, 

W'.ixiiii,^  well  ot  Ills  deep  wound 

In  -.lumber  soft,   and  on   the  j^Mound 

Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen. 

I^ut  far  above,   in  spangled  sheen. 

Celestial  Cupid,  her  tamed  son,  advanced, 

Molds  his  dear  Psyche,  sweet  entranced, 

After  her  wanderinj^^  labours  lonj,'. 

Till  free  consent  the  j^ods  amon^ 

Make  her  his  eternal   bride, 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 

Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 

Youth  and  Joy;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done: 

I   can   Hy  or  I   can   run 

(Juickly  to  the  j^reen  earth's  end, 

Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend, 

And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 

To  the  corners  ot  the  moon. 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 

Love  Virtue;  she  alone  is  ivi.'i-, 

She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 

Higher  than  the  sphery  chime; 

Or  if  feeble  Virtue  were, 

Heaven  itselt  would  stoop  to  iier. 


178 


From  Arcades         J^  j^ 

O'er  the  smooth  onaiiicllcd  j;^rreii 

\\'hrr«"  lU)  [)riiU   of  step  liath  boon, 
Follow  Mu-  as  I  sin^ 
And   touch  the  warbled  striiif^'' 

L'nd»'r  the  shady  roof 

Of  branchiiij^'^  ehii   star-proof, 
Follow  me; 

I   will  brinj*^  you  where  she  sits 

Clad   in   splendour  as  befits 
Her  deity. 
Such  a  rural  queen 

All  Arcadia  hath  not  been. 


179 


To  Mr. 
Lawrence 


Lawrence,   dl"  virtuous  lather  virtuous  son, 
Now     lliat     the     lielcU    are     dirU,     and 

ways  are  mire, 
Where    shall    we    sonielinies    meet,    .ind 
by  the  tire 
III  I[)    wa^tr    a    sullen    day  -what    ma)    he 

won 
From    (he    hard    season's    ^aininji;/      Time 
will   run 
On  smoother,   till    Fa\onius  reinspire 
The  frozen  earth,   and  clothe  with   fresh 
altire 
Ihe    lily  and   rose    that    neither  sowefj   nnr 
spun. 

What     neat     repa.>l     >hall     OmsI     us.     li^hl 
and  choice, 
Of  Attic    taste,    with    wine,    whence    we 
may  rise 
To    hear  the    lute   well    touched,    or  artful 
voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 
He    who   of    these    delights    can    judge, 
and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,   is  not  unwise. 
i8o 


Sir  John   Suckling 


The  Shades  J^  J^ 

Oh  for  some  honest  Iovjt's  j^host, 
Some  kind  unbodied  post 
Sent  from  the  shades  below! 
I   strantjtiy  lon^  to  know 
Whether  the  nobler  chaplets  wear — 
Those  thai  their  mistrer.s'  scorn  did  bear 
Or  thosf  that   were  used   klndlv. 


For  whatsoe'er  they  tell   u->  here 
To  make  these  sufferings  dt-ar, 
Twill  there,    1   fear,   be  found 
That  to  the  being  crowned 
To  have  loved  alone  will  not  suffice, 
Unless  we  also  have  been  wise, 
And  have  our  loves  enjoyed. 

What  posture  can  we  think  him  in 
That,   hen-  unloved,  again 
;3i 


THE  SHADES 

Departs,  ami  's  ililihcr  i^oiif 
Where  each  sits  by  liis  own? 
Or  iiow  can  that  Elysium  be 
Where   I   my  mistress  still   must  see 

('ir(I«-(i    in   another'^,  arms? 


182 


Richard   Crashaw 


On  a  Prayer- 

Book  sent  to         j^  JS/ 

Mrs.  M.  R. 

Lo,   here  a  little  volume,   but  pfra.il  book ! 

A  nest  of  new-born  sweets, 

Whose  native  pages,  'sdaining 

To  be  thus  folded,  and  conijjl.'iinin;; 

Of  these  ignoble  sheets, 

Affect  more  comely  bands, 

Fair  one,   from  tliy  kind  hands. 

And  contidently  look 

To   find  the   rest 

Of  a  rich  bindint^  In  your  breast! 

It    is    in    one    choice   iuindfiil,   hta\en;  and 

all 
Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamped,  tiuis  small 
To  prove  that  true  Schools  use  to  tell, 
A  thou'^and  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 
1R3 


OAT  A    PRAYER-BOOK 

It  is  love's  great  artillery. 

Which  here  coiitracls  it^t■lf.  and  comes  to 

lie 
Close   couched   in   your  while   bosom;  and 

from   thence, 
As  from  a  snowy  fortress  of  defence, 
Against    your    ghostly    foe    to    take    your 

part, 
And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 

It  is  an  armoury  of  light; 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You  '11  find  it  yields 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts 

More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  sn.ire^,   or  hell  balh  darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 
Those  of  turtles,  chaste,  and  true, 

Wakeful,  and  wise. 
Here's  a  friend  shall  fight   for  you; 
Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart, 
Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 

But,   O!  the  heart 
That  studies  this  high  art 
Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper, 
And  yet  no  sleeper. 

184 


ON  A    PRAYER-BOOK 

Dear  soul,  be  strong; 
Morcy  will  come  ere  long, 
And  bring  lier  bosom  full  of  blessings, 
Flowers  of  never-fading  graces, 
To  make  immortal  dressings 
For  worthy  souls,   whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The   Spouse  of  virgins,    and    the    Virgin's 
Son. 

But    if    the    nohir    Bridegroom    when     He 

come 
Shall  find  the  wandering  heart  from  home, 

Leaving  her  chaste  abode 

To  gad  abroad, 
Amongst    the    gay    mates    of    the    god    of 
flies 

To  take  her  pleasure,  and  to  play 

And  keep  the  Devil's  holy  day; 
To  dance  in  the  sunshine  of  some  smiling 

But  beguiling 
Spheres  of  sweet  and  sugared  lies. 

Some  slippery  pair 

Of  false,  perhaps,  as  fair, 
Flattering,  but  foreswearing,  eyes; 

Doubtless  some  other  heart 

Will  get  the  start 
Meanwhile,  and,   stepping  in  before. 
Will  take  possession  of  that  secret  store 
i8q 


ox  A    PR  A  }  ER-BOOK 

Of  irnKlt  11   s\v»('ts,   aiid   livly  joy^, 
W(jrds  wliicli  an*  not   lu-ard  with  t'ars — 
These  tumultuous  shops  of  noise- 
EfTectual   whispers,   whose  still   voice 
The   soul    iisfh'  inorr   fiiU   than    lir.ir^; 

Aiiitnous  lari_t;^iiishni<'iits,  luniun'us  trames, 

Slights   which   are   not   seen   ulth  eyes, 
Spiritual  and   soul-piercinj;^  i^lances 

Whose  pure  and  suhtle   M^htnini^   tlies 
Home    to    the    iieart,    and    sei^    the    house 

on    tire 
And   mehs   it   dc)wn   in   ^ueet    desire, 

^'el    does    not    stav 
To    ask    the    window's    lea\e    lu    pass    that 
way; 

Delicious  deaths,   soft  exlirilations 
Of  soul;  dear  and  divine  annihilations; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  deli_i,'hts; 

A    hundred    thousiuid    t^oods,    iHori.-s,    and 
graces, 
And  many  a  mystic  thing, 
Which   the  divine  embraces 
Of  the   dear   Spouse   of  spirits   with    them 
will  bring, 
For  which  it  is  no  shame 
That  dull  mortality  must  not  know  a  name. 
t86 


ON  A    PRAYER-BOOK 

Of  all  this  siorc 

{){  blfssintrs,   and  ten   thousand  more, 

If  when   Ht>  conif 
He  find   thr  heart   from  home, 

Doubtless   He  will  unload 
Himself  some  olherwiurc. 

And  pour  abroad 

His  precious  svvet-i^, 
On  the   fair  soul   whom   lirsi    H«*  nu'ets. 

O   fair!  O   furtunatr!  O   rich!  O  d(  ar! 

()  happy,  and  thrice  h.ippy  ^he, 

Dear  silver-breasted  dove, 

Whoe'er  she  be, 

Whose  early  love 

With  winged  vows 
Makes  haste  to  meet  her  morning  S{)t)U' 
And  close  with  His  immortal  kisses! 

Happy,   indeed,    who   never  misses 

To  impro\e  that   precious  hour, 
And  every  day 
Seize  her  sweet  prey, 

All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  He  rises, 

Dropping,   with  a  balmy  shower, 

A  delicious  dew  of  spices. 

O.   let  the  blissful   heart  hold  fast 
Her  heavenly  armful,   she  shall  taste 
At  once  ten  thousand  paradises! 
1 3? 


ox  A    PRAYER-BOOK 

She  shall  have  power 

To  rifle  and  deflower 
The  rich    and    rosial    sprint;    of  tho.se  rare 

sweets, 
Which    with    a    suellin-    bosom    then-   she 

nu't'ls; 
Boundh'ss  and  intlniti'.  bottomless  treasures 

Of  pun^  inebriating  pleasures; 
Happy  proof  she  shall  discover, 

What   joy,    what  bliss, 

How   mafiy  heavens  at  onc«-  ii   is, 
To  have  a  (iod  b«come  her  lover! 


i88 


To  the 
Morning 

SATISFACTION 
FOR    SLEEI- 


JZ^ 


What   succour   can    I    hope   the    Muse  will 

send, 
Whose  drowsiness  hath  wronged  ihe  Muse's 

friend  ? 
Wliat   hope,   Aurora,   to   propitiate   thee, 
Unless  the   Muse  sing   my  apology? 
O!  in  that  morning  of  my  shame,  \\\v\\   I 
Lay  folded  up  in   sleep's  capti\ity; 
How  at   the   sight   didst    thou    draw  back 

thine  eyes 
Into  thy  modest  veil  !   how    didst  thou  rise 
Twice    dyed    in    ihine    own    blushes,    and 

didst  run 
To  draw  the  curtains  and  awake  the  sun! 
Who,  rousing  his  illustrious  tresses,  came, 
And    seeing    the    loathed    object,    hid    for 

shame 
His    head    in     thy     fair    bosom,    and    still 

hides 
Me  from  his  patronage;   I  pray,  he  chides; 
i8g 


TO    TffE   MORXIXG 

And,   pdintin^  to  dull    M()r|)Iu'U>,   l»id>  im- 

t;ik.- 
M\    own    Apollo,  li\    if   I    tan    maUc 
His    Lcllu-  Ijr  my   HrlKon,  and  mt 
If  Morplnus  iiavc  a  Miisl'  to  uail  on  nu*. 
Iliiuf     'l   is     my     lumihlr     laiK\     lindh    no 

u  injL;^, 
No   nimhlf   raplurrs,    starts   lo   hcavin   and 

iMinK-^ 
I'aitluislastic   Jiamiv.   such  as  can   t,M\r 
M.uiuw  lo  my  f)Iunip  f^cnius,  make  It  llvi' 
Drcsst'd     in     the    f^iorioiis     madness    ol     a 

muse, 
\\  ho>t.'   feet   can   walk    th*     milk\-uav   and 

cllOOSJ' 

Her  Starr)    throne;     whose   huly   h'   lU  <  an 

warm 
The  mra\f.  and   hokl    u()  an   e.\aU<  w   .oin 
T(j  lift   me    from   my   la/y   urn,  and  climb 
L'pon   the  stooped    shoidders    ot  old  Timv-, 
And  trace  eternity.      But  all  is  dead, 
All   these  delicious  hopes  are  buried 
In   the  deep  wrinkles  of  his  ani^ry  brow. 
Where    mercy   cannot    fmd    them;     but     O 

thou 
Bright  lady  of  the  morn,  pity  doth   lie 
So  warm   in   thy  soft   breast,  it  cannot  die; 
Have  mercy,  then,  and  when  he  next  doth 

rise, 
O,  meet  the  angry  god,  invade  his  eyes, 


TO    TIJE  MORXIXG 

And  strokf  liis  r.icii.ml  cliceks;  on«^  timely 

kihs 
Will   kill  his  anger,   and   iivi\c  my  bri^>. 
So  to  the  treasure  of  thy  pearly  drw 
Thrice  will   I   pay  three  tears,  to  show  how 

true 
My    i;rief    is;     so    my    wakt  tiij     lay     shall 

knock 
At  the  oriental  j^ate>,  and  dul)    mot  k 
The  early  lark's  shrill  orisons  to  be 
An  anthem  at  the  day's  nativity. 
And  the  same  rosy-tinj^cred  hand  of  thine, 
That  shuts    night's   d}in^^  eyes  shall    open 

mine. 
liut  liiou,  faint  j^od  of  sleep,  forget  that  I 
Was  ever  known  to  be  thy  votary. 
No  more  my  pillow  shall  thine  altar  b<', 
Nor  will    1   olVer  any  more  to  thee 
M)self  a  melting  sacritice;    1   ni  born 
.\gain  a  fresh  child  of  the  buxom   ninrn, 
Heir  of  the  sun's  tirst  beams;  why  threat'st 

thou  so? 
Why  dost   tlinii    -Ii.ike   tii\    le.Kl.-n    sccplre? 

Go, 
Bestow  thv    j'"i'i'.^    upon   w.iktiul   \\u«-, 
Sickness  and  sorrow,  whose  pale  lids  ne'er 

know 
Thy  downy  linger  dwell   upon   th«ir  eyes; 
Shut  in  their  tears,  shut  out  their  miseries. 


191 


Loves  ^  ^ 

Horoscope 

Lovi',   bra\f   \'irtuc's  youiim'r  biutlui, 
Erst  liatli  m.idt'  my  luart  a  inolher. 
She  consults  the  anxioub  spheres, 
To  calculate  her  youn^  son's  years; 
She  asks  it'  sad  or  savings  powers 
Gave  omen  to  his  infant  hours; 
She  asks  each  star  tliat   then  stood  b} 
it"  poor   Love   sliall   live  or  die. 

Ah,   my  heart,   is  thai   the  way? 
Are  these  llie  beams  that  rule  thy  day? 
Thou  know'st  a  face   in  whose  each  look 
Beauty  lays  ope  Love's  fortune-book. 
On  whose  fair  revolutions  wait 
The  obsequious  motions  of  Love's  fate. 
Ah,  my  heart!  her  eyes  and  she 
Have  tauj3^ht  thee  new  astrolog^y. 
Howe'er  Love's  native  hours  were  set, 
Whatever  starry  synod  met, 
'T  is  in  the  mercy  of  her  eye, 
If  poor  Love  shall  live  or  die. 
192 


LOVE'S  HOROSCOPE 

If  those  sharp  rays,  puttirifj  on 
Foiiils  of  death,  bid  Love  bo  g^one; 
Thouj4^h  the  heavens  in  council  sat 
To  crown  an   uncontrolled  fate; 
Though  their  best  aspects  twined  upon 
Thf  kindest  constellation, 
Cast  amorous  glances  on  his  birth, 
And  whispered  the  confederate  earth 
To  pave  his  paths  with  all   the  good 
That  warms  the  bed  of  youth  and  blood: 
Love  lias  no  plea  against   her  eye; 
Beauty  frowns,   and   Love  must  die. 


But  it   lu-r  milder  intluenct'  move, 
And  gild  the  hopes  of  humble  Love; — 
Though   heaven's  inauspicious  eye 
Lay  black  on   Love's  nativity; 
Though  every  diamond  in  Jove's  crown 
Fixed  his  forehead  to  a  frown; — 
Her  eye  a  strong  appeal  can  give. 
Beauty  smiles,  and  Love  shall  live. 


O,   if  Love  shall  live,  O  where, 
But  in  her  eye,  or  in  her  ear. 
In  her  breast,  or  in  her  breath. 
Shall  I  hide  poor  Love  from  death? 
For  in  the  life  aught  else  can  give, 
Love  shall  die,  although  he  live. 

(B126)  193  O 


Loi/rs  HOROscori!: 

(3r.    it    I.ovc   shall   die,   ()   vvliorc, 
But   in  luT  eyr,  ur  in  her  ear, 
III   lur  hn-ath.   or  in   hrr  breast, 
Shall    1    build   his  funeral   nest !' 
While   I^ive  shall  thus  entoniJx-d   lie. 
Love  shall   live,  althouj^h  he  die  ! 


194 


On  Mr.  G. 

Herbert's 
Book 


KNTITLEO,    'the    TRMTIK 

or   SACRED    IOKM>,  ' 

SENT    TO    A    (.fcN  I  LKWOMAN 


Know  you,   lair,  on  what   you  look? 
Dlvincst  love  lies  in  this  book, 
ICxp«ctin}^  fire  from  your  eyes, 
To  kindle  this  his  sacrifice. 
Wlun  your  hands  untie  thes«'  strinfjs, 
Think  you've  an  anj^e!   by  tli«'   winu,^s: 
One  that  gladly  will  l)e  ni^^di 
To  wait   ufK)n  each  inorninj^  sigh, 
To  flutter  in  the  balmy  air 
Of  your  will  perfumed  prayer. 
These  white  plumes  of  his  he  Ml  lend  you, 
Which  every  day  to  heaven  will  send  you, 
To  take  acquaintance  of  the  sphere, 
.And  all   tin-  smooth-faced  kindred  there. 
And  thou4^h   Herbert's  name  do  owe 
These  devotions,   fairest,   know 
That  while  1   lay   them  on  the  slirine 
Of  your  white  hand,   thty  are  mine. 
195 


Wishes  to 

his  Supposed  J^  ^ 

Mistress 


Whoe'er  she  be. 

That  not  inipobsible  She 

That  shall  command   mv  heart   and   me: 


Where'er  she  lie, 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny: 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  F"ate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  tread  our  earth; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,   through  which  to  shine: 

Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
And  be  ye  called,   my  absent  kisses. 
196 


WISHES 

I  wish  her  beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  g-audy  tire,  or  glist'riii^   shoe-tie. 

Something-  more  than 
TalTata  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rampant  feather,   or  rich   fan. 

More  than  the  spoil 

Of  shop,  or  silkworm's  toil, 

Or  a  bought  blush,   or  a  stn  smile. 

A  face  that 's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest. 


A  cheek  where  youth 

And  blood,  with  pen  of  truth, 

Write  what  the  reader  sweetly  rueth. 


A  cheek  where  grows 
More  than  a  morning  rose, 
Which  to  no  box  his  being"  owes. 

Lips  where  all  day 
A  lover's  kiss  may  play. 
Vet  carry  nothing  thence  away. 
197 


WISHES 

Looks  that  oppress 

Their   richest   tires,   hut   dress 

And  clothe   their  simi)le   nakedness. 

I^iycs   thai    displace 

Their  neit^hbour  diamond,    and   outface 

That   sunshine   hy  their  own  sweet  f;;-race. 

Tresses   tliat    wear 

Jewels,    but  to  declan- 

How  much  th<  msclves  more  precious  are; 

VV'hotee   native   ray 

Can   tame   the   wanton   day 

Of  i^ems  tiiat  in   iheir  brii^lit  shades  play. 

Each   ruby   there, 

Or  pearl   that  dare  appear. 

Be  its  own   blush,   be   its  own   tear. 

A  well-tamed  iieart, 

For  whose  more  noble   smart 

Love  may  be  long-  choosing  a  dart. 

Eyes  that   bestow 

Full  quivers  on   love's   bow, 

Yet  pay  less  arrows  than   they  owe. 

Smiles  that   can   warm 

The  blood,  yet  teach  a  charm, 

That  chastity  shall   lake  no  harm. 

198 


JV/SlfES 

Blushes  ihal  bin 

The  burnish  of  no  sin, 

Nor  flames  of  aut^ht  too  hot  within. 

Joys  that  confess, 

V^irtue  their  mistress, 

And  ha\'e  no  other  liead  to  dress. 

Fears  fond  and  ^li^-hl 

As  the  coy  bride's,   when  nii<ht 

First  does  the  lon^int;-  lover  rijfht. 

Tears  quickly   Hed, 

And  vain,  as  those  are  shed 

For  a  dyin|j^  maidenhead. 

Soft  silken   hours. 

Open   suns,   shady  bowers; 

'liove  all,  nothing-  within  that  lowers. 

Days  that  need  borrow 

No  pan  oi  their  good- morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  nltchi  of  sorrow. 

Days  that  in  spite 

C)t  darkness,   by  the  lic^hl 

Ot  a  ck-ar  mind,  are  day  all   nii^hi. 

Nights,  sweet  as  they. 
Made   short  by  lovers'  play, 
Vet   long-  by   the  absence  ol   the  day. 
199 


WISHES 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challeiifj^e  to  his   end, 

And  when   it   comes,  s.iy.  Welcome,  friend  I 

Sydneian  ^ho\ver> 

Of  sweet   discourse,    u  host-   powers 

Can  crown  old  winter's  head  with  tlowers. 

Whate'er  delii;hl 

Can  make  day's  forehead  brii^ht. 

Or  ^ive  down   to  the  win^s  of  nit^fht. 

In   her  whole   frame. 

Have  Nature  all  the  name, 

Art  and  ornament  the  shame. 

Her  flattery, 

Picture  and  poesy. 

Her  counsel  her  own  virtue  be. 

I    wish  her  store 

Of  worth   may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;  and   I    wish no  more. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,   whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  i^arland  of  my  vows; 

Her  whose  just  bays 

My  future  hopes  can  raise, 

A  trophy  to  her  present  praise; 


WISHES 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  hnes    wish  to  see; 

1   sc^ek  no  further,  it   Is  She. 

Tis  She,  and  here. 

Lo!   I   unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

May  she  enjoy  it 

Whose  merit  dare  apply  it, 

But  modesty  dares  still  deny  it! 

Such   worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  tlyin^  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let    her  full  ^lory, 

My  fancies,   tly  before  ye; 

Be  ye  my  tactions  :- -but  her  story 


Quern  Vidistis 
Pastores,  &c. 


A    HVMN    OF    THE 
NATIVITY,    SUNG    BY 
THE   SHEPHERDS 


JS^ 


Cho 


Come,  we  shepherds  whose  blest  sii<ht 
Hath  met  Love's  noon  in   Nature's  nitihl 
Come  lift  we  up  our  loftier  sont^^, 
And    wake   the    sun    that   lies   too    loni^. 

To   all  our  world  of  well-stoi'n  joy 

He  slept,  and  dreamt  of  no  such  thiiii,^, 

While  we  found  out   Heaven's   fairer  eye, 
And  kissed  the  cradle  of  our  Kini^; 

Tell   him    he   rises   now  too   late 

To  show  us  aue^ht  worth  lookint;'  at. 

Tell  him  we  now  can  show  him  more 
Than  he  e'er  showed  to  mortal   sit^hl, 

Than   he   himself  e'er  saw  before, 

Which  to  be  seen  needs  not  his  light : 

Tell  him,   Tityrus,   where  th'  hast  been, 

Tell  him,  Thyrsis,  what  th'  hast  seen. 


QUEM    VIDISTIS   PASTORES 


Titvnis 

Gloomy  nig^ht  (Miibracod  the  place 

Where  the  noble  infant  lay: 
The  babe  looked  up,  and  showed  His  face; 

In  spite  of  darkness  it  was  day. 
It  was  Thy  day,  sweet,  and  did  rise. 
Not  from  tin-  Fast,  but  from  Thine  eyes. 

Chorus 

It  was  Thy  day,  sweet,  and  did  rise, 
Not  from  the  Kast,  but  from   Thine  eyes. 

Th  vrsis 

Winter  chid  aloud,  and  sent 

The  ang^ry  North  to  wage  his  wars: 

The  North  forgot  his  fierce  intent. 
And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars. 

By  those  sweet  eyes'  persuasive  powers. 

Where  he  meant  frosts  he  scattered  tlowers. 

Chorus 

By  those  sweet  eyes'  persuasive  powers, 
Where  he  meant  frosts  he  scattered  flowers. 

Both 

We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Voung  dawn  of  our  eternal  day; 


QUEM    VI D I  ST  IS  PA  STORES 

We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  the  East, 
And  chase  the  tremblint^  shades  away: 
We  saw  Thee,  and  we  blest  the  sig-ht, 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet  li^t^ht. 

J'ityrus 

Poor  world,  said   1,  what  wiU   thou  do 
To  entertain  this  starry  stmn^or? 

Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow — 
A  cold  and  not  too  cleanly  mant^er? 

Contend  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth 

To  fit  a  bed  for  this  hug:e  birth. 

L  ^ horns 

Contend  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
To  ht  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth. 

Thynis 

Proud  world,  said   I,  cease  your  contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  babe  alone, 

The  phoenix  builds  the  phoenix'  nest, 
Love's  architecture  is  his  own. 

The  babe,  whose  birth  embraves  this  morn. 

Made  His  own  bed  ere  He  was  born. 

Chants 

The  babe,  whose  birth  embraves  this  morn, 
Made  His  own  bed  ere  He  was  born. 

204 


QUEM   VIDISTIS  PASTORES 


Tityrus 

I  saw  the  curled  drops,  soli  and  slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head, 

OtfVing  their  whitest  sheets  of  snow, 
To  furnish  the  fair  infant's  bed. 

Forbear,  said   I,  be  not  too  bold. 

Your  fleece  is  white,   but  'tis  loo  cold. 

Thyrsis 

I  saw  th'  obsequious  seraphim 
Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow, 

F'or  well  thjy  now  can  spare  their  v\ings, 
Since  Heaven  itself  lies  here  below. 

Well  done,  said   I ;   but  are  you  sure 

Your  down,  so  warm,  will  pass  for  pure? 

Chorus 

Well  done,  said  I ;   but  are  you  sure 
Your  down,  so  warm,  will   pass  for  pure? 

Roth 

No,  no,  your  King  's  not  yet  to  seek 
Where  to  repose  His  royal  head; 

See,  see  how  soon  His  new-bloomed  cheek 
'Twixt  mother's  breasts  is  gone  to  bed. 

Sweet  choice,  said  we;   no  way  but  so. 

Not  to  lie  cold,  yet  sleep  in  snow ! 
20.=; 


QUEM    VIDISriS  PASTORES 


C/iofus 

Sweet  choice,   said  we;    no  way  bul   so, 
Nut  to  lie  cold,  yet  sleep  in  snow  ! 

J-'u/I  (  '/io?-us 

Welcome  all   wonders  in  one  sii;lu  ! 

Eternity  shut  in  a  span  ! 
Siunnier  in   winter!   day  in   nii^lu  ! 

Cliurus 

Heaven  in  earth!    and  (Jod  in  man  I 
Great  little  one,  whose  all-embracing  birili 
Lifts   earth   to    Heaxcn,   stoops   liea\en    to 
earth, 

Welcome,  tho'  nor  to  ^o\d,  nor  silk. 
To  more  than  Csesar's  birthright  is: 

Two  sister  seas  of  virgin's  milk, 
With  many  a  rarely-tempered  kiss, 

That    breathes    at    once    both    maid    and 
mother, 

Warms  in  the  one,  cools  in   the  other. 

She  sings  Thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 
Her  kisses  in  Thy  weeping  eye; 

She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  Thy  lips. 
That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie. 

She  'gainst  those  mother  diamonds  tries 

The  points  of  her  young  eagle's  eyes. 
206 


QUEM   VIDISTIS  PASTORES 

W't'lcome  -tho'  not  to  those  gay  flies, 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings, 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes — 

But  to  poor  shepherds,  homespun  things, 

Whose  wealth's  their  flocks,  whose  wit's 
to  be 

Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet,  when  young  April's  husband  ^how'rs 
Shall   bless  the  fruitful   Maia's  bed. 

We'll   bring  the  first-born  of  her  flowers 
To  kiss  Thy  feet   and  crown  Thy  head, 

To  Thee,   dread   Lamb!    whose   love   must 
keep 

The  sh'-pherds  while  they  feed  their  sheep. 

To  Thee,  meek  Majesty,  soft   King 
Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves  I 

Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring, 
Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves  I 

At  last,   in  fire  of  Thy  fair  eyes, 

Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice! 


207 


Music's  Duel  j^         /^ 

Now   westward   Sol   had    ^pciit    the   richest 

beams 
Ol  noon's  hi^q-h    i^lory,  when,   hard    by  the 

streams 
Of  Tiber,  on   tin-  scene  of  a  green  plat, 
Under  protection  of  an  oak,  there  sat 
A    sweet    lute's    master:    in    whose    gentle 

airs 
He  lost  the  day's   heat,  and   his   own   hot 

cares. 
Close   In   the  covert  of    the  leaves   there 

stood 
A  nightingale,  come  from  the  neighbour- 
ing wood: — 
The  sweet  inhabitant  of  each  glad  tree, 
Their    muse,   their    Siren,   harmless    Siren 

she, — 
There  stood  she  listening,  and  did  entertain 
The   music's   soft    report,    and    mould    the 

same 
In  her  own  murmurs,  that  whatever  mood 
His  curious   fingers   lent,    her  voice   made 

good. 

208 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

The  nuui  perceivetl  his  ri\al,  and  her  art; 
Disposed  to  give  tlie  light-foot  lady  sport, 
Awakes  his  lute,  and   'gainst   the  fight  to 

come 
Informs  it,  in  a  sweet  prceludium 
Of  closer  strains ;  and  ere  the  war  begin 
He  slightly  skirmishes  on  every  string, 
Charged  with  a  flying  touch;  and  straight- 
way she 
Carves  out  her  dainty  voice  as  readily 
Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguished  tones; 
And  reckons  up  in  soft  divisions 
Quick   volumes   of  wild   notes,    to   let  him 

know 
By   tiiat    shrill    taste    she    could    do    some- 
thing too. 
His  nimble   hand's  instinct   then   taught 
each  string 
A   cap'ring   cheerfulness ;    and   made   them 

sing 
To  their  own  dance;  now  negligently  rash 
He    throws    his    arm,    and    with    a    long- 
drawn  dash 
Blends  all  together,  then  distinctly  trips 
From   this   to   that,  then,  quick   returning, 

skips 

And  snatches  this  again,  and  pauses  there. 

She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 

Meets   art    with    art ;    sometimes    as    if   in 

doubt — 

(B126)  209  P 


MrsrC'S  DUEL 

Not   perfect  \ct,  and   iVaring  to  be  out 
Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  loni^-sjuin  note 
Tliroug^h    the    sleek    passage    oi    her   open 

throat : 
A   clear    unwrinkled    sontj- ;    thin  doth    she 

point   it 
With    tender  accents,  and   se\erely  joint   it 
By  short   diminutives,  that,  heintif  reared 
In  controverting^   warbles  e\enly  shared, 
With     her    sweet    self    she    wrani^les ;    he, 

amazed 
That   from    so  small   a   channel    should    be 

raised 
The  torrent  of  a  voice  whose  melodv 
Could  melt  into  such   sweet  variety, 
Strains  hij^^her  yet,  that,  tickled  with   rare 

art. 
The    tattlinj^-    ^trinj^s      each    breathini;'    in 

his  part — 
Most    kindly   do    fall    out;    the    orumbiinj;- 

bass 
In  surly  i^roans  disdains  the  treble's  j^race; 
The    hii^h  -  perched    treble    chirps    at    this, 

and  chides 
Until  his  tinger-moderator  hides 
And  closes  the  sweet  quarrel,  rousin.i;'  .ill. 
Hoarse,  shrill,  at  once:  as  when  the  trum- 
pets call 
Hot   Mars  to   th'  har\est  of  death's   tield, 

and  woo 

2IO 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

Men's  hearts  into  iheir  hands;  this  Irsson, 

too, 
She    f^ivt's    him    back,    hi-r    supple    bri-asl 

thrills  out 
Sharp    airs,    and    staggers    in    a    warbling 

doubt 
Of    dallying     sweetness,     hovers     o'er    lu  i 

skill. 
And  folds  in  waved  notes,  with  a  trembling 

bill. 
The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song; 
Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 
Of    short    thick    sobs,    whose    thundVing 

volleys  float 
And  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 
in    panting    murmurs,    'stilled    out    of  her 

breast. 
That    ever- bubbling    spring,    the    sugared 

nest 
Of  her  delicious  soul,   thai  there  does  lie 
Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody, — 
Music's    best    seed-plot;    when    in    ripened 

ears 
A  golden-headed  harvest   fairly  rears 
His  honey-dropping  tops,  ploughed  by  her 

breath. 
Which  there  reciprocally  laboureth. 
In  that  sweet  soil  it  seems  a  holy  quire 
Founded    to    th'    name    of   great   Apollo's 

lyre ; 

211 


MUSIC'S   DUEL 

W'liosc  sihir  ruot  riiif^s  vvilli  tlit;  sprij^htly 
notes 

Orsweet-lip|)cd  an^rl-inips.  that  swill  tlu'ir 
throats 

In  cream  of  niornini;    Hrlicon  ;   and  then 

Prefer  soft  antli'-nis  to  the  ears  of  men, 

To  woo  them  from  their  beds,  still  mur- 
muring 

That  men  can  sKep  whiK'  tlu-y  their  matins 
sini,^:- 

Most  divine  service!   whose  so  earh    lay 

Prevents  the  eyelids  of  the  blushinj^^  day. 

There  mig^ht  you  hear  her  kindle  her  soft 
voice 

In  the  close  murmur  of  a  sparklini^'^  noise, 

And  lay  the  t^round-work  of  her  hopeful 
souK^; 

Still  keepinjL,'^  in  the  forward  stream  so 
long, 

Till  a  sweet  wliirKvind,  slrivini;  to  ^^.-i  out. 

Heaves  her  soft  bosom,  wanders  round 
about, 

And  makes  a  pretty  earthquake  in  her 
breast ; 

Till  the  fledi<-ed  notes  at  leng-th  forsake 
their  nest. 

Fluttering-  in  wanton  shoals,  and  to  the 
sky, 

Winged  with  their  own  wild  echoes,  prat- 
tling fly. 

212 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

Slie   opes  the   floodgate,    and   lets  loose  a 

tide 
or  streaininj;'    sweetness,    which    in    state 

doth  ride 
On    the    waved    biick     of    every    swelling 

strain, 
Rising  and  falling  in  a  pompous  train; 
And  while  she  thus  discharges  a  shrill  peal 
Of  flashing  airs,   she  qualiHcs  their  zeal 
With  the  cool  epode  of  a  graver  note ; 
Thus  high,  thus  low,  as  if  her  silver  throat 
Would    reach    the    bnizen    voice    of    war's 

hoarse  bird  ; 
Her  little  voice  is  ravished ;  and  so  poured 
Into  loose  ecstasies,  that  she  is  placed 
Above  herself — music's  enthusiast ! 

Shame  now  and  anger  mixed  a  douhit- 

stain 
In   the  musician's  face:  Vet   once  again, 
Mistress,    I    come.      Now    reach    a    strain, 

my  lute, 
Above  her  mock,  or  be  for  ever  mute ; 
Or  tune  a  song  of  victory  to  me. 
Or  to  thyself  sing  thine  own  obsequy! 
So    said,    his    hands    sprightly    as    fire    he 

flings. 
And   with  a    quivering    coyness   tastes   the 

strings  : 
The  sweet-lipped  sisters,  musically  frighted. 
Singing  their  fears,  are  fearfully  delighted: 
213 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

Treinbliiij;  as  vviicn  Apollo'^  i(olcltii  hairs 
Are  fanned  and  Irizzled  in  tlu*  wanton  airs 
Of  his  own   l^roath.  whicli,  married  to  his 

lyiv. 
I^oth   tun«-  the  sph-^res,  ami  make  liea\en's 

M  If  k)(>k   higher  ; 
From    this    lo   that.    fri)m    (hat    to   this,    he 

Hies, 
Feels  music's  pulsr  in  all   iitr  arteries; 
Caught     in     a     n«(      whirli     there     Apollo 

spreads. 
His      fmi^t-rs      stru^-^lr      wiiii      th«-      vocal 

ihrr.ids. 
h'oliowintj;^  tho^e  litth-  rills,   he  sinks  into 
\   sea  of  Helicon  ;   his  hand  does  ljo 
Those     parts     of    sweetness     \\  hi(  h     with 

nectar  drop. 
Softer  than  that  which  panis  in  H«be'sciip: 
The  humorous  slrint^s  e.\f)ound  iiis  hvirned 

touch 
I>\     \ariuus    t^losses;     now    llu-v    seem     to 

.^^rutch 
And  murmur  in  a  buzzing^  din,  then  t^ingle 
in    shrill-tont>ued    accents,    slriving^    to    be 

single ; 
Every  smooth  turn,  every  delicious  stroke, 
Gives  life  to  some  new  g^race :  thus  doth 

he  invoke 
Sweetness  by  all  her  names  ;  thus,  bravely 

thus— 

214 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

I'Vauijlit   wiili  a  fury  s»i  luirnumious  — 
Tilt'   lute's   lii^lil  (jt-nius   nu\s    dt)i-.s  promlly 

rise, 
Heavt'd    on    llu-    surt(«s    of    swoH'n    i  ha[>- 

sodifs, 
VVhos*^   nourish,  inttror-Hk*-,  dtttli  turl  tin- 

air 
With  Hash  of  hif^h-born  fanclt-s ;   h^n*  and 

ihci.' 
Dancing  in  lolly  nu-asures,  and  anon 
Creeps  on  the  soft  lou(  h  of  a  tender  lone, 
Whose     trenihllnj^     nuirniurs,    nn-ltint;     in 

wild  airs, 
Run    to    and    fro,    complainint^    his    sweci 

ciires ; 
Because     those     precious     nnsteries     that 

dwell 
in  music's  ravished  soul   he  dare  n(»t    tell, 
But    whisp<T    to    the   world  :    tlui-^   do   thev 

vary, 
Kach   string   his   note,  as  if  iluy  nieanl   lo 

carry 
Their  master's  blest  soul,  snatched  out  at 

his  ears 
By    a    stront;     ecstasy,     throuj^h     all     ihe 

spheres 
Of  music's    heaven ;    and    seal    It    there   on 

hit<^h 
In  th'  tnipyrwum  of  pure  harmony. 
At    leni^th- after   so   lont<-,   so   loud   a   strife 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

Of  all   lh(^  strini;'s,  still   hrcalhinji;  the  best 
life 

Of  blest  variety,  atteiKJinj;   on 

His  fingers'  fairest  revolution, 

In    manv   a   sweet    rise,    main    as  sweet  a 
fall- 

A  full-mouthed  diapason  swallows  all. 
This  done,  he  lists  what  she  would  say 
to  this; 

And  she,   althout^'^h   her  breath's  late  exer- 
cise 

Had    dealt    too    roughly    with     her    tender 
throat, 

Yet   summons   all    her  swi'ct   powers  for  a 
note. 

Alas,    in   vain !    for  while,   sweet   soul,   she 
tries 

To  measure  all   those  wild  diversities 

Of  chattVing  strings,  by  the  small  size  of 
one 

Poor  simple  voice,  raised  in  a  natural  tone. 

She  fails;  and  failing,  grieves;  and  griev- 
ing, dies  ; 

She   dies,    and   leaves   her   life   the   victor's 
prize, 

Falling  upon  his  lute.     O,  fit  to  have — 

That  lived   so   sweetly — dead,   so  sweet   a 
grave ! 


2X6 


The  Flaming 
Heart 


UI'ON  THE  BOOK  AND  PICTURE 
OK  THE  SKRAFHICAL  SAIN  I 
TERESA,  AS  SHK  IS  USUALLY 
EXPRKSSKI)  WITH  A  SERAPHIM 
bESIDK    HEK 


VVt'll-iiu'an'ui^   rt-aders!    you   that  come  as 

friends 
And    catch    the    precious    nam*'    this    piece 

pretends, 
Make  not  too  much  haste  t'  admire 
That  fair-cheeked  fallacy  of  fire. 
That  is  a  seraphim,  they  say, 
And  this  the  ^reat  Teresia. 
Readers,  be  ruled  by  me,  and  make 
Here  a  well-placed  and  wise  mistake; 
You  must  transpose  the  picture  quite. 
And  spell  it  wrong  to  read  it  rig^hl; 
Read  Him  for  Her,  and  Her  for  Him, 
And  call  the  saint  the  seraphim. 

Painter,  what  didst  thou  understand 
To  put  her  dart  into  his  hand? 
See,  even  the  years  and  size  of  liini 
217 


THE   FLAMIXG   HEART 

Shows  tills  the  mother  seniphiin. 

This  is  the  mistress  flame,  and  duteouN  lie 

Her    happy    fireworks,    here,    comes    down 

to  see  : 
O,  most  poor-spirited  ol   men  I 
Had  thy  cold  pencil  kissed  her  pen. 
Thou  couldst  not  so  unkindl\   err 
To  show  us  this  faint  shade  lor  her. 
Why,  man,  this  speaks  pure  mortal  frame. 
And  mock-^  with  t'emalc  frost  love's  manly 

flame ; 
One  would  suspect  thou  meani'si   to  paint 
Some  weak,   inferior  woman   Saint. 
l>ut,  had  thy  pale-faced  purple  took 
l-'lre    from     the     hurnlnj^-    ciu't-ks    of    that 

brijj-ht  book. 
Thou  wouldsl  on  her  have  heaped   up  all 
That  could  be  found  seraphical ; 
Whate'er  this  youth  of  fire  wears  fair, 
Rosy  fingers,  radiant  hair, 
Glowing  cheek,  and  glistVing  wings, 
All  those  fair  and  flagrant  things; 
But,  before  all,  that  fier}-  dart 
Had  filled  the  hand  of  this  great   heart. 

Do,  then,  as  equal   right  requires, 
Since  his  the  blushes  be,  and  hers  the  fires, 
Resume  and  rectify  thy  rude  design, 
Undress  thy  seraphim  Into  mine; 
Redeem  this  injury  of  thy  art. 
Give  him  the  veil,   give  her  the  dart. 
218 


THE  FLAMING   HEART 

Give  him  the  veil,  tlial   he  may  cover 
The  red  clieeks  of  a  rivalled  lover, 
Ashamed  that  our  world  now  can  slion' 
Nests  of  new  Seraphims  here  below. 

Give  her  the  dart,  for  it  is  she, 
Fair    youth,     shoots    both    thy    shaft    and 

thee ; 
Say,  all  ye  wise  and  v.dl-pierced  iiearts 
That  live  and  die  amidst  her  darts, 
What  is 't  your  tasteful   spirits  do  prove 
In  that  rare  life  of  her  and  love? 
Say  and  bear  witness.     Sends  she  not 
A  seraphim  at  every  shot? 
What   mag^azines  of  immortal    arms  there 

shine ! 
Heav'n's  j^reat   artillery  in  each  love-spun 

line ! 
Give,  then,  the  dart  to  her  who  ^ives  the 

flame, 
(jive  him   the  veil  who  g^ives  the  shame. 

But  if  it  be  the  frequent  fate 
Of  worst  faults  to  be  fortunate. 
If  all  's  prescription,  and  proud  wrong 
Hearkens  not  to  an  humble  song. 
For  all  the  gallantry  of  him. 
Give  me  the  suffVing  seraphim. 
His  be  the  bravery  of  those  bright  things, 
The  glowing  cheeks,  tiie  glistering  wings. 
The  rosy  hand,  the  radiant  dart ; 
Leave  her  alone  ilie  flaming  he:irt. 
219 


THE  FLAMING  HEART 

Leave  her  that,  and  lliou  shall  leave  her 

Not    one    loose    shaft,    but    Love's    whole 
quiver. 

For  in   Love's  field  was  never  found 

A  nobler  weapon  than  a  wound. 

Love's  passives  are  his  activ'st  part, 

The  wounded  is  the  wounding  heart. 

O   heart!    the  equal   poise  of   Love's   both 
parts, 

Big  alike  with  wounds  and  darts, 

Live    in    these    conquering   leaves,   live   all 
the  same, 

And  walk  through  all  tongues  one  trium- 
phant flame ! 

Live  here,  great  heart,  and   love,  and   die, 
and  kill. 

And    bleed,    and    wound,    and    yield,    and 
conquer  still. 

Let  this  immortal  Life,  where'er  it  comes. 

Walk  in   the  crowd   of  loves  and   martyr- 
doms. 

Let    mystic    deaths    wait    on 't,    and    wise 
souls  be 

The  love-slain  witnesses  of  this  life  of  thee. 

O  sweet  incendiary!  show  here  thy  art 

Upon  this  carcass  of  a  hard,  cold  heart ; 

Let  all  thy  scattered  shafts  of  light,   that 
play 

Among  the  leaves   of  thy  large   books   of 
day, 

220 


THE  FLAMING  HEART 

ConibiiK-d    af^^ainst    this    breast,    at    once 

break  in 
And  take  away  from  me  myself  and  sin; 
This  gracious  robbery  shall  thy  bounty  be, 
And  my  best   fortunes   sucii   fair  spoils   of 

me. 
O  thou  undaunted  dauj^hter  of  desires! 
By  all  thy  dower  of  lights  and  tires, 
By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove, 
By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love. 
By  thy  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day. 
And  by  thy  thirst  of  love  more  large  than 

they ; 
By  all  thy  brim-tilled  bowls  of  tierce  desire, 
By   thy   last    morning's   draught    of  liquid 

fire, 
By  the  full  kingdom  of  that  final  kiss 
That  seized  thy  parting   soul,   and  sealed 

thee  His ; 
By  all  the  heav'ns  thou  hast   in   Him, 
Fair  sister  of  the  seraphim ! 
By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  thee, 
Leave  nothing  of  myself  in  me : 
Let  me  so  read  thy  life  that  I 
Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  die. 


Abraham  Cowley 


On  the 

Death  of  j^  JS^ 

Mr.  Crashaw 

Poet  and  Saint!   to  thee  alone  are  given 
The  two  most  sacred  names  of  earth  and 

heaven; 
The  hard  and  rarest  union  which  can  be, 
Next  that  of  Godhead  with  humanity. 
Long  did  the  Muses  banished  slaves  abide, 
And  built  vain  pyramids  to  mortal  pride; 
Like     Moses,     thou     (though     spells     and 

charms  withstand) 
Hast   brought    them    nobly  back   home   to 

their  Holy  Land. 
Ah,    wretched    we,    poets    of  earth !    but 

thou 
Wert   living   the   same   poel   which   iliou'ri 

now. 
Whilst     angels    sing    to    thee     their    airs 

divine, 

223 


ELEGY 

And  join  in  an  applause  so  great  as  thine, 

Equal  society  with  them  to  hold, 

Thou    need'st    not    make    new    songs,    but 

say  the  old. 
And  they  (kind  spirits!)  siiall  all  rejoice  to 

see 
How  little  less  than  they  exalted  man  mav 

be. 
Still   the  old    heathen    gods    in    numbers 

dwell, 
The  heaven liest  thing  on  earth  still  keeps 

up  hell. 
Nor  have  we  yet  quite  purged  the  Christian 

land; 
Still    idols    here,     like    calves    at     Bethel, 

stand. 
And    though    Pan's    death    long    since    all 

oracles  broke, 
Yet  still  in  rhyme  the  fiend  Apollo  spoke: 
Nay,  with  the  worst  of  heathen  dotage  we 
(Vain  men !)  the  monster  woman  deify;     » 
Find   stars,   and    tie   our   fates   there    in    a 

face. 
And  paradise    in   them,   by  whom  we  lost 

it,  place. 
What   different    faults    corrupt    our    Muses 

thus ! 
Wanton  as  girls,  as  old  wives  fabulous  ! 
Thy  spotless  muse,  like   Mary,  did  con- 
tain 

224 


ELEGY 

The  boundless  Godhead;  she  did  well  dis- 
dain 
That  her  eternal  verse  employed  should  be 
On  a  less  subject  than  eternity; 
And  for  a  sacred  mistress  scorned  to  take 
But  her  whom  God   Himself  scorned  not 

His  spouse  to  make. 
It  (in  a  kind)  her  miracle  did  do; 
A  fruitful  mother  was  and  virgin  too. 
How  well,  blest  swan,  did  Fate  contrive 

thy  death, 
And     make    thee    retider    up    thy    tunetul 

breath 
In    thy    great    Mistress'    arms,    thou    most 

divine 
And  richest  oft'ering  of  Loretto's  shrine! 
Where,  like  some  holy  sacrifice  to  expire, 
A  fever  burns  thee,  and  Ijve  lights  the  fire. 
Angels  (they  say)  brought  the  famed  chapel 

there, 
And     bore    the    sacred     load     in     triumph 

through  the   air. 
'Tis   surer  much   they  brought  thee  there, 

and  they 
And  thou,   their  charge,   went  singing  all 

the  way. 

Hail,    bard  triumphant!    and  some  care 
bestow 
On  us,   the  poets  militant  below. 

(  B  126  )  225  Q 


ELEGY 

(3ppu^t'd  by  uur  old  •■tuMiiv,  .id\ersr  chance, 
Attacked   by  envy  and  by  i^iiorancf, 
Enchained  by  beauty,  tortured  by  desires, 
Exposed   by  tyrant    love    to   savaj^e    beasts 

and   Kires. 
Thou  frojn  low  earth  In  nohhr  llanics  didst 

rise, 
And,   like   Elijah,  inouni   alive   the  skies. 
Elisha-like  (but  with  a  wish   much   less, 
More   fit   thy  greatness  and   my  littleness), 
Lo,    here   I    beg   (I,   whom    thou   once   didst 

pro\  e 
So  humble  to  esteem,  so  good  to  love) 
Not   that   thy  spirit   might  on  me  doubled 

be- 
I  ask  but   half  thy  mighty  spirit  for  nie; 
And  when  my  muse  soars  with  so  strong 

a  wing. 
Twill   learn  of  things  di\ine,  and   hrst  of 

thee,  to  sing. 


226 


Hymn  to  j^  j^ 

the  Light 

First-born    ol"  cliaus,    who    so    fair   didst 
come 

From     ihf    old     N'('i;ru's    darksome 

womb ! 
Which,  when  it  saw  ihi'  lovely  child, 
The   melancholy   mass   put   on    kind   looks 
and  smiled  ! 

Thou    tide  of  i^lory  which    no   rest  dost 
know, 

But  ever  ebb  and  ever  tlow  ! 
Thou  golden  shower  of  a  true  Jove, 
Who  does  in  thee  descend,  and  Heaven  to 
Karth   make  love ! 

Hail,    active   Nature's   watchful    life   and 
health! 

Her  ioy,  her  ornament,  and  wealth! 
Hail  to  thy  husband,  Heat,  and  thee! 
Thou  the  world's  beauteous  Bride,  the  lusty 
Bridegroom  he. 

227 


HYMN   TO    THE  LIGHT 

Say    from    what    p^oldeii    nuixrrs    ol    llie 
sky 

Do  all   tliy  ui lifted  arrows  fly? 
Swifliu'ss    and    power    by    birth    are 
thine: 
From   I  by  preat   Sire   they  came,   thy   Sire 
the  Word  di\ine. 

'Tis.   1   beliexe,  this  arciicr)    to  show, 
That   so  much   cost   in  colours  thou 
And  skill   in  painting  dost  bestow 
L'pon  thy  ancient  arms,  the  t^audy  heavenly 
bow. 

Swit"t  as  li^lil  thoui^hts  their  empty  career 
run, 

Thy  race  is  finished  when  beg^un. 
Let  a  post-angel  start  with  thee, 
And  thou  the  goal  of  earth  shalt  reach  as 
soon  as  he. 

Thou,     in     the     moon's    bright    chariot 
proud  and  gay. 

Dost     thy     bright     wood     of    stars 

survey; 
And    all    the    year    dost    with    thee 
bring 
Of  thousand  flowery  lights  thine  ow  n  noc- 
turnal spring. 

228 


HYMX   TO    THE  LIGHT 

Thou,  Sc\  thlan-like,  closl  round  ili\  lands 
above 

The  sun's  ^ili   tent   for  <ver  move; 
And    still     as    thou     in     pomp    do-^t 

The  shinin<^  pageants  of  the  world  attend 
thv  show. 


Nor  amidst  all  these  triumj^hs  dost  thou 
scorn 

The  humble  f^^low-vvorms  to  adorn, 
And  with  those  livinj^  spangles  ^ild 
(O   greatness   without    pride!)   the   lilies  of 
the  field. 


Nig-ht   and   her   utjly  subjects   thou   dost 
frig-ht, 

.\nd  sleep,  the  lazy  owl  of  ni^ht; 
.\shamed  and  fearful  to  appear, 
They   screen    their  horrid  shapes  with   the 
black  hemisphere. 

With  them  there  hastes,  and  wildly  takes 
the  alarm 

Of  painted  dreams  a  busy  swarm. 
At  the  first  opening  of  thine  eye 
The  various  clusters  break,  the  antic  atoms 
fly. 


HYMN   TO    THE   LIGHT 

Tin    j^iiilty  serpents  and  obsa-ntT  beasts 
('n«p.     conscious,     to     their     socrel 

rests; 
Nature    to   ther   dots    rexerenci-  pay, 
111  onuns  .111(1  ill  >iKl>t^  remove  out  of  thy 
wav. 


Al   ihy  appearance,  (irief  itscH  i>  said 
To   shake   his  \vinj.;s  and    rousr   his 

liead: 
Aiul  {  loudy  Care  has  often   totdc 
A   i^riUle   ht'aniy    >nillr,   retli'iteii    from   thy 
look. 


At    thy    appearance,    Fear    itselt    iji^rows 
bold'; 

Thy  sunshine  melts  away  his  cold. 
Encoura£j«'d  at  the  sig^ht  ol"  th«'e. 
To   the  cheek  colour  conies,  and    l"irnin»*SN 
to  the  knee. 


Even    Lust,    the    master   of   a    hardened 
face, 

Blushes,   if  thou  be 'st  in    the  place, 
To  darkness'  curtain  he  retires. 
In  sympathisinii   nio-ht   he  rolls  liis  smoky 
fires. 

2^0 


HYMN   TO    THE  LIGHT 

When,     j^otldi'sN,      tlmu     litV^i     up     lh\ 
wakent'd  lit^ad 

Out   of  tlu-   morning's   purple   uilI, 
riiy  quire  of  bird^  about  thee  play, 
And  all  tin  joyful  world  salutes  tin*  rislut; 
dav. 


'I'he   j>llOSts   and    nmn^i'  i  -  pn  n^    iii.il 
presume 

A   IhkIv's  pri\ilej^e  to  assuiuf. 
Vanish  a^ain   in\isil)ly, 
And   Ixxlies  j^ain  aj^Min   their  visibility. 


All   the  world's  bravery  that  delij^hls  our 
eyes 

Is   but    lln   se\eral    liv<ri«'s: 
Thou     the     rich     d\r    on     them     !)«•- 
slow'st, 
"by  nimble  pencil  paints  thii  landscape  as 
thou   t;o'st. 


A    crimson    j^armeni    in    the    rose    thou 
wear'st, 

A     crown     of     studded     j^old     thou 

bear'st. 
The  virt^in   lilies  in  their  white 
Are  clad  but  with  the  lawn  ol  almost  naked 

i«s:ht. 

231 


HYMN    TO    THE   LIGHT 

The  viuk't,  Sprinj^'s  lillle  infant,  stands 
Girt  in  the  purple  swaddling'-bands; 
On  the  fair  tulip  liiou  dost  dote, 
Thou  cloth'st  it  in  a  gay  and  parti-coloured 
coat. 


W'i'Ji    tianits    condensed     thou    dost    thy 
jewels  tlx, 

And  solid  colours  in   it    mix: 
Flora  hers«"lf  cnxirs   to  sfc 
Flowers   fairer  than    h'l    own.  ,in<i   (hirahlr 
as  she. 


Ah    g-oddess!    would    thou    couldst     th\ 
hand  withhold 

And  be  less  liberal  to  i^^old; 
Did  thou   less  value  to  it  give, 
Of  how   much   care   (alas!)    might'st    thou 
poor  man  relieve. 


To     me     the     sun     is     more    deli.<j"hlful 
far, 

And      all      fair     days     mucii      fairer 

are. 
But    tew,    ah,    wondrous    few    there 
be 
Who  do  not  gold  prefer,  O  goddess,  even 
to  thee ! 

232 


HYMN   rO    THE  LIGHT 

Throuj^h    iht-   soft    ways   of  hea\fn,   and 
air,  and  sea, 

Which  open  all  their  pores  to  thoc; 
Like  a  clear  river  thou  dost  j^Iidi-, 
And   with   thy  living  streams  through   the 
( lose  channels  slide. 

W\x\    where    firm    hodirs    thy    iVee    course 
oppose, 

Gently  thy  source  the  land  o'erflows; 
Takes    there    possession,    and    does 
make, 
Of  colours    minj^led,    Li^hl,    a    thick    and 
standing  lak(\ 

Hul  the  vast  ocean  of  unhounded  Day 
In  the  Empyrean  Heaven  does  stay. 
Thy  rivers,  lakes,  and  springs  below 
From  thence  took  first  their  rise,  thither  at 
last  must  flow. 


233 


On  the  Death  of  Sir 
Anthony  Vandike,  the  j^ 

Famous  Painter 

Vandike   Is   dead ;    but    what    bold    Muse 

shall  dare 
(Though  poets  in  that  word  with  painters 

share) 
To    express    her    sadness?      Poesy    must 

become 
An   art,   like   painting  here,  an   art  that 's 

dumb. 
Let 's  all  our  solemn  grief  in  silence  keep. 
Like  some  sad  picture  which  he  made  to 

weep. 
Or  tliose  who  saw  it,  for  none  his  works 

could  view 
Unmoved   with   the    same   passions   which 

he  drew. 
His  pieces  so  with  their  live  objects  strive. 
That  both  or  pictures  seem,  or  both  alive. 
Nature     herself    amazed,     does     doubting 

stand, 
Which  is  her  own,  and  which  the  painter's 

hand, 

234 


SIR  ANTHONY   VANDIKE 

And  does  attempt  the  like  with   less  suc- 
cess, 
When  her  own  work   in   turns  she  w^ould 

express. 
His  all-resembling"  pencil  did  out-pass 
The  mimic  imagery  of  looking-glass. 
Nor  was  his  lite  less  perfect  than  his  art, 
Nor  was   his   hand  more    erring   than   his 

heart. 
There  was  no  false,  or  fading-  colour  there, 
The    figures   sweet   and  well   proportioned 

were. 
Most  other  men,  set  next  to  him  in  view, 
r\ppeared  more  shadows  than  the  men  he 

drew. 
Thus  still  he  lived  till  Heaven  did  for  him 

call, 
Where  reverend  Luke  salutes  him  tirst  of 

all: 
Where  he  beholds  new  sights,  divinel}-  fair; 
And  could  almost  wish  for  his  pencil  there. 
Did    he    not    gladly    see    how    all    things 

shine, 
Wondrously  painted  in  the  Mind  divine, 
Whilst  he  for  ever  ravished  with  the  show, 
Scorns    his    own     art    which    we     admire 

below. 
Only  his  beauteous  lady  still  he  loves; 
(The    love     of    heavenly    objects     Hea\en 

Improves) 

235 


SIR   ANT/IOXV    VAX  DIKE 

He    st-es    brif^lu    ant^tls    In     pure    beams 

appear. 
And    lliinks    on    lier   he   left    .so    like    iheni 

here. 
And  you,   fair  widow,  who  slay  here  alive, 
Since  he  so  much  rejoices,  cease  to  j^rieve. 
Your  joys  and   j^riefs  wen*  wont   the  same 

to  be; 
He^ln    not   now,    blest    pair,    to  disaf^ree. 
No  wonder  Death  moved  not  his  j^enerous 

mind, 
Vou,  and  a  new  born  you,  he  left  behind. 
Kven    Kate  expressed    iiis    love  to  his  dear 

wife, 
And    let    him    end    vour    picture    with    his 

life. 


936 


On  the  Death 

of  Mr.  William         j^         J^ 

Hervey 

It  was  a  dismal,  and  a  fearful  niglu, 
Scarce  could    th<-    morn   driw    ow   the    un- 
willing I'^lil' 
When      sleep,      death's     iniaj^e,      kli      my 
troubled  breast 
By  something  liker  Death  possessed. 
My  eyes  with  tears  did  uncomtnanded  flow, 
And  on  my  soul  hung  the  dull  weight 
Of  some  intolerable  fate. 
What  bell  was  that?     Ah  me!     Too  much 
1  know. 

My  sweet  companion,  and  my  gentle  peer, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  thu>  unkindly  here, 
Thy  end  lor  ever,  and  my  life  to  moan? 

O  thou  hast  left  me  all  alone! 
Thy  .soul  and  body  when  death's  agony 
Besieged  .uound  thy  noble  heart, 
Did  not   with   more  reluctance  part 
Than    1,   my   dearest   friend,  do   part   from 
thee. 

237 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

My    dearest   triend,   would    1    he\d   died   for 
thee! 

Life  and  this  world  henceforth  will  tedious 
be. 

Nor  shall   I  know  hereafter  what  to  do 
If  once  my  griefs  prove  tedious  too. 

Silent  and  sad  I  walk  about  all  day, 
As  sullen  ghosts  stalk  speechless  by 
Where  their  hid  treasures  lie; 

Alas,  my  treasure  's  gone — why  do  I  stay? 

He   was    my   friend,    the    truest    friend    on 

earth ; 
A  strong  and  mighty  influence  joined  our 

birth. 
Nor  did  we  envy  the  most  sounding  name 

By  friendship  given  of  old  to  fame. 
None    but     his    brethren     he    and    sisters 
knew 
Whom     the     kind     youth     preferred     to 

me; 
And  even  in  that  we  did  agree, 
For    much    above    myself    I     loved    them 
too. 

Say,  for  you  saw  us,  you  immortal  lights, 
Hovv'    oft    unwearied    we    have    spent    the 

nights, 
Til!  the  Ledccan   stars,  so  famed  for  love, 
Wondered  at  us  from  above. 
238 


MR,    WILLIAM  HERVEY 

We  spent  them   not    in   toys,   in   lusts,   or 
wine; 
But  search  of  deep  philosophy, 
Wit,   eloquence,  and  poetry; 
Arts  which   I    loved,   for  they,   my  friend, 
were  thine. 

Ye   fields    of  Cambridge,    our   dear    Cam- 
bridge, say. 

Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day? 

Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two? 

Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade; 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join, 
And  into  darksome  shades  combine. 

Dark  as  the  g^rave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid. 

Henceforth  no  learned  youths  beneath  you 

sing-, 
Till   all   the   tuneful   birds   to  your  boug^hs 

they  bring; 
No   tuneful    birds    play   with   their  wonted 
cheer 
And  call  the  learned  youths  to  hear; 
No    whistling-    winds     through     the    glad 
branches  fly; 
But  all,   with  sad  solemnity 
Mute  and  unmoved  be. 
Mute  as  the  grave  wherein  mv  friend  does 
lie. 

239 


ON    THE  DEATII   OF 

To  him   my    mu>c    made  ha^,le   uitli    pvi-ry 

strain 
Whilst  it  was  lu-w  and  warm  yet  from  the 

brain. 
He   loved   my  wortiikss    ihynu.s,   and    like 
a  friend 
Would  find  t)ut  sonnthlni;  to  commend. 
Hence  now,  my  muNe,   ihou  canst  not  mc 
delight; 
Be  this  my  latest  verse 
With   which   I   now  adorn  his  luarse, 
And   this   my  grief  without  thy  help   shall 
write. 

Had  I  a  wreath  of  bays  about   my  brow, 
1    could   contemn   that    flourishing    honour 

now, 
Condemn  it  to  the  fire,  and  joy  to  hear 

It  rage  and  crackle  there. 
Instead  of  bays,  crown  with  sad  cypress  me, 

Cypress  which  tombs  does  beautify. 

Not  Phcebus  grieved  so  much  as  I 
For  him  who  first  was  made  that  mourn- 
ful tree. 

Large  was  his  soul;  as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 
Submitted  to  inform  a  body  he-'e; 
High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heaven 
to  have, 
But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave; 
240 


MR.    WILLIAM  HERVEY 

So  high  that  all  the  \  u  lues  tluTc  did  come, 

As  to  the  chiefest  seat, 

Conspicuous  and  great; 
So  low   that  for  me  too  il   madi-  a  room. 

He  scorned  this  busy  world  below,  and  all 
That  we,  mistaken  mortals,  pleasure  call; 
Was  filled  with  innocent  gaiety  and  truth, 

Triumphant  o'er  the  sins  of  youth. 
He,    like    the    stars    to    which    he    now    is 
gone. 

That  shine  with  beams  like  llame. 

Yet  burn  not  with  the  same, 
Had    all    the    lights    of  youth,    of  the    fire 
none. 

Knowledge    he   only   sought,    and   so   soon 

caught. 
As  if  for  him  knowledge  had  rather  sought. 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
Whene'er   the   skilful   youth   discoursed   or 
writ, 
Still  did  the  notions  throng 
About  his  eloquent  tongue, 
Nor    could    his    ink    flow    faster    than    his 
wit. 

So  strong  a  wit  did   nature  to  him  frame. 

As  all  things  but  his  judgment  overcame; 

{  B  1 26 )  24  r  H 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

His  JLidgmeiit  like  the  heavenly  moon  did 
show, 
Tempering-  that  mig-hty  sea  below. 
O  had  he  lived  in   learning-'s  world,  what 
bound 
Would  have  been  able  to  control 
His  overpowering  soul? 
We   have   lost    in    him    arts    that    not    yet 
are  found. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various 

wit, 
Yet    never    did    his    God    or    friends    for- 
get. 
And  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in 
view. 
Retired  and  gave  to  them  their  due. 
For    the    rich    help    of    books    he    always 
took, 
Though  his  own  searching  mind  before 
Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er 
As    if    wise    nature    had    made    that    her 
book. 

So  many  virtues  joined  in  him,  as  we 
Can    scarce    pick    here    and    there    in    his- 
tory; 
More  than  old  writers'  practice  e'er  could 
reach. 
As  much  as  they  could  ever  teach. 
242 


MR.    WILLIAM  HERVEY 

These  did  relig^ion,  Queen  of  virtues  sway 
And  all  their  sacred  motions  steer 
Just  like  the  first  and  highest  sphere 

Which  wheels  about,  and  turns  all  heav'n 
one  way. 

With  as  much  zeal,  devotion,  piety. 

He  always  lived,  as  other  saints  do  die. 

Still  with  his  severe  account  he  kept, 
Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept; 

Then  down  in  peace  and  innocence  he  lay, 
Like  the  sun's  laborious  light. 
Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night. 

Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

Wondrous    young    man,    why    wert    thou 

made  so  good, 
To  be  snatched  hence  ere  better  understood? 
Snatched  before  half  enough   of  thee  was 
seen! 
Thou  ripe,  and  yet  thy  life  but  green! 
Nor  could   thy  friends  take  their  last  sad 
farewell. 
But  danger  and  infectious  death 
Maliciously  seized  on  that  breath 
Where  life,  spirit,  pleasure  always  used  to 
dwell. 

But  happy  thou,  ta'en  from  this  frantic  age. 

Where  ignorance  and  hypocrisy  does  rage! 

243 


MR.    WILLIAM  HERVEY 

A  fitter  time  im-  lieiu'ii  w^  soul  f'er  chose, 

The  place  now  only  free  from  ihose. 
There  'mong   the  blest  thou  dost   for  ever 
shine, 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  cast'st  thy  view 
Upon  that  white  and  radiant  crew. 
See'st   not  a  soul   clothed   with    more   lii^ht 
than   thine. 

And    if    the    g^iorious    saints    cease    not    to 

know 
Their    wrctciied     friends     who     flight     uiih 

life  below; 
Thy     rtame     to     me    does     still     the    same 
abide, 
Only  more  pure  and  rarefied. 
There    whilst    immortal    hymns    thou    dost 
rehearse, 
Thou  dost  with  holy  pity  see 
Our  dull  and  earthly  poesic, 
Where  j^rief  and  misery  can  be  joined  with 
verse. 


244 


For  Hope  J^  -^ 

Hope,  of  all  Ills  tliat  men  endure 
The  only  cheap  and  universal  cure  ! 
Thou  captive's  freedom  and  thou  sick  man's 

health  ! 
Thou    lover's    victory,    and    thou    be^t,rar's 
wealth  ! 
Thou   manna,  which   from    heaven   we 

eat. 
To  every  taste  a  several  meat. 
Thou    strong    retreat!    thou    sure   entailed 
estate 
Which  nought  has  power  to  alienate! 
Thou  pleasant,   honest    flatterer!    for  none 
Flatter  unhappy  men,  but  thou  alone. 

Hope,  thou  first-fruits  of  happiness ! 
Thou  gentle  dawning  of  a  bright  success! 
Thou  good  preparative,  without  which  our 

joy 
Does  work  too  strong,  and  whilst  it  cures, 
destroy; 
Who  out  of  fortune's  reach  dost  stand, 
And  art  a  blessing  still  in  hand ! 
245 


FOR   HOPE 

Whilst  llu'c,  luT  cariU'sl-niDuev,  we  n'tain, 

We  certain  are  to  i;ain, 
Whether  she    her   bargain    hicaU,    or  clsr, 

fulfil; 
Thou  onI\-  t;ood,  not  worse  for  ending   ill. 

IJrolhcr  of  failh,  'iwixl  whom  and  thee 
The  joys  of  hea\  en  and  earth  divided  be ! 
Though    failh    be   heir,  and    have    the   tirst 

estate, 
Thy  portion  yet  in  moveables  is  jLj^reat. 
Happiness  itself 's  all  one 
In  thee,  or  in  possession! 
Only  the  future's  thine,  the  present  his! 
Thine 's     the     mon-     hard     and     noble 
bliss; 
Best  apprehender  of  our  joys,  which   hast 
So   long   a    reach,    and   vet   canst    hold    so 
fast ! 


Hope,  thou  sad  lovers'  only   friend  ! 
Thou  way  which  may'st  dispute  it  with  the 

end ! 
For  love  I  fear's  a  fruit  that  does  delight 
The   taste    itself  less   than   the    smell    and 
sight. 
Fruition  more  deceitful  is 
Than    thou  canst   be,   when  thou  dost 
miss ; 

246 


FOR   HOPE 

Men  leave  thee  by  ohuiIninj<-,  and  stiaigln 

flee 
Some  other  way  a^ain  to  thee; 
And    that  's    a    pleasant    country,    without 

doubt, 
To  which  all   soon   nturn   that  travel  out. 


347 


On  Orinda's         ^         ^ 
Poems 

We  allowed  you  beauty,  and  we  did  submit 

To  all  the  tyrannies  of  it; 
Ah!  cruel   sex,    will  you   depose   us  too   in 
wit? 
#  Orinda  does  in  that  too  reign. 

Does    man    behind    her  in    proud   triumph 

draw, 
And  cancel  great  Apollo's  Salic  law. 

We  our  old  title  plead  in  vain, 
Man  may  be  head,  but  woman  's  now  the 
brain. 
Verse  was  Love's  fire-arms  heretofore, 
In  Beauty's  camp  it  was  not   known. 
Too    many   arms    besides    that    Conqueror 
bore: 
'Twas  the  great   cannon   we   brought 

down 
To  assault  a  stubborn  town; 
Orinda  first  did  a  bold  sally  make, 
Our  strongest  quarter  take. 
And  so  successful  proved,  that  she 
Turned  upon  Love  itself  his  own  artillery. 

248 


ON  ORINDA'S  POEMS 

Thou   dost   my  wonder,    wouldsl   my  envy 

raise 
If    to    be    praised    1    loved    more    llian    to 
praise 
Where'er  1  see  an  excellence; 
I  must  admire  to  see  thy  well-knit  sense, 
Thy  numbers  gentle  and  thy  fancies  hiirh, 
Those  as  thy  forehead  smooth,  these  spark- 
ling as  thine  eye. 
'Tis  solid,  and  'tis  manly  all, 
Or  rather  'tis  angelical, 
For,  as  in  angels  we 
Do  in  thy  verses  see 
Both  improved  sexes  eminently  meet, 
They  are  than  man  more  strong,  and  more 
than  woman  sweet. 

They  talk  of  Nine,  I  know  not  who— 
Female  Chimeras,  that  o'er  poets  reign. 

1  ne'er  could  find  their  fancy  true. 
But  have  invoked  them    oft    I  'm    sure  in 

vain ! 
They  talk  of  Sappho,  but  alas  the  sluur.e ! 
Ill  manners  soil  the  lustre  of  her  fame. 
Orinda's  inward  virtue  is  so  bright 
That  like  a  lanthorn's  fair  enclosed  light, 
It  through  the  paper  shines  where  she  doth 

write. 
Honour,  and  friendship,  and  the  generous 

scorn 

aAQ 


ON  GRIND  A' S  POEMS 

Of  tliltiL^s  tor  which  we  wore  not  lioni 
(Things  that  can  only  by  a  fond  disease, 
Likf^    that    of  girls   our    vicious    stomachs 

[di'ast'l. 
Are  the  instructive  subjects  of  lier  pen; 

And  as  the  Roman  victory 
Taught  our  rude  land  arts  and  civility, 
At  once  she  overcomes,  cnslaveb,  and  betters 
man. 

But    Roni<'    with    all    her  arts    could    ne'er 
inspire 

A  female  breast  with  such  a  tire. 

The  warlike  .Amazonian   train 
Who  in  Elysium  now  do  peaceful  reign, 
And  Wit's  mild  empire  before  Arms  prefer, 
Hope  't  will  be  settled  in  her  sex  by  her. 
Merlin  the  seer  (and  sure  he  would  not  He 

In  such  a  sacred  company) 
Does  prophecies  of  learn 'd  Orinda  show, 
Which  he  had  darkly  spoke  so  long  ago; 
Even   Boadicea's  angry  ghost 
Forgets  her  own  misfortune  and  disgrace, 
And    to    her    injured    daughters    now   does 

boast 
That   Rome  o'crcome  at  last,  by  a  woman 
of  her  race. 


Richard   Lovelace 


To  Lucasta 

on  going  X.Q  JS^  J^ 

the  Wars 

Tell   nie  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkliui, 
Thai   from  the  nunnery 

Of  thy  ciiaste  breast  and  qulit   mind 
To  war  and  arms   1    fly. 

True;  a  now  mistress  now  1  chase, 
The  first   foe  in  the  field; 

Antl  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  lior>^»\  a  shi«'M. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  thou,  too,  shalt  adore; 

I   could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  mucli 
Loved  1   not  honour  more. 


To  Amarantha 


THAT    SIIK    WOUI.U 
DISHEVI   I       I  IKK     HAIR 


Aniauuitlui,  sweet  and  fair, 
Ah,  braid  no  more  that  shining   hair! 
As  my  curious  hand  or  eye 
Hoverin.t^  round   tliee,  let   it    tly. 

Let  it   fly  as  uncon fined 
As  its  calm  ravisher  the  wind. 
Who  hath  left  his  darling",  th'  east. 
To  wanton  in  that  spicy  nest. 

Every  tress  must  be  confessed; 
But  neatly  tangled  at  the  best; 
Like  a  clew  of  golden  thread 
Most  excellently  rav(^lled. 

Do  not,  then,  wind  up  that  light 
In  ribands,  and  o'er  cloud  in  night, 
Like  the  sun  in  's  early  ray; 
But  shake  vour  head  and  scatter  day 


252 


Lucasta 


J'AM.NO    HEk    OUsKlJUIES 
TO   THE   CHASTE    MKMOKY 
OF    MY    DEAREST    COUSIN, 
MRS.    BOWES    BARNE 


See  wliat  an  undisliirbtcl  tear 
She  weeps  for  her  last  sleep! 

But  viewing  lier,  straij^ht  waked,  a  star, 
She  weeps  that  she  did  weep. 

(irief  ne'er  before  did  tyrannise 
On  the  honour  of  that  brow, 

And  at  tlie  wheels  of  her  brave  eyes 
Was  captive  led,  till   now. 

Thus  for  a  saint's  apostasy, 

The  uniniaf^ined  woes 
And  sorrows  of  the  hierarchy 

None  but  an  ani^-el  knows. 

Thus  for  lost  soul's  recover}', 

The  clappinijf  of  the  wing-s 
And  triumph  of  this  victory 

None  but  an  ant(el  sings. 
253 


LUC A  ST  A 

So  noiu-  hut   •*<\v   kno\v>  to  Ix'ino.m 

This  tqual  virgin'^  lali-; 
None  hul    Luc;ist.i  can  //<•/'  crown 

Ol'  jL^lorv  (-••!. -hratr. 

Thfii  dart   on   nir,  (haste    Li^'ht,  one  ra; 

r>y  wli'u  h    I    ina\   cii^cn 
Thy  joy  clear  ihroii-h   this  cloudy  day 

To  dress  niy  sorrow  hy. 


254 


To  Althea,  ^  ^ 

from  Prison 

W'ht-n  Iov(*  with   uiKoiilim  J  winj^^s 

IIov«rs  williin  my  gates, 
Aiul   m\    divine  Althea  hrinj^s 

To  whisper  at    the  j^ratis; 
W'hrii    1    He  taiij^led  in   hrr  liair 

And   fettered   to  lier  eye; 
The  birds  that  wanton   in  the  air 

Know   no  such   hhtrty. 

W'hi'ii   llowing   cu|)>  run  swiftly  roun  J 

W'itli   no  alhiyinj^   Thames, 
( >ur  careless  lieads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal   flames; 
When  thirsty  j^rief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that   tipple  in   the  deep 

Know   no  such  libert}*. 

Winn  (like  committed  linnets)  1 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 

The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 
And  glories  of  my  King; 
-55 


TO   ALTIIEA,   FROM  PRISON 

W  lit'ii    I    .sli.ill   voice  aloud   how   ^ood 

He  is,  how  f^real   should   be, 
Enlart^ed  winds  tliat  curl   llie  Hood 

Know   no   such   hbrri\ . 

Sloiie  walls  do   nol   a   prison    in. ike 

Nor  iron  bars  a  caj,'e; 
Minds  innoceni  and  t|uiei   take 

Tlial   for  an   herniitaj^e. 
If  1    have  freedom  in   my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am   free, 
Angels  alone  that  soar  abov<- 

Knjoy  such  liberty. 


20 


A  guiltless 

Lady  imprisoned:        JZ^        ^ 

after  Penanced 

Hark,  fair  one,  how  whairVr  hero  is 
Doth  lau^h  and  hin^  Ht  thy  distress, 
Not  out  of  hate  to  thy  relief, 
But  joy  -to  enjoy  thee,   though  in  griel. 

See!    that    which    chains    you,    you    chain 

here, 
The  prison  is  thy  prisoner; 
How  much  ihv  jailer's  keeper  art! 
He  binds  thy  hands,  but  thou  his  heart. 

The  gyves  to  rase  so  smooth  a  skin 
Are  so  unto  themselves  within; 
But,  blest  to  kiss  so  fair  an  arm, 
Haste  to  be  happy  with  that   li:.rm; 

And  play  about  thy  wanton  wrist. 
As  if  in  them  thou  so  wert  dressed; 
But  if  too  rough,  too  hard  they  press, 
O  they  but  closely,  closely  kiss. 

{  B  136  )  237  ^ 


A    LADY  IMPRISONED 

And  as  lliy  ban*  feet  bless  the  way, 
The  people  do  not  mock,  but  pray, 
And  call  thee,  as  amazed  they  run, 
Instead  of  prostitute,  a  nun. 

The  merry  torch  burns  wltii  desire 
To  kindle  the  eternal  fire,' 
And  lii^htly  dances  in  thine  eyes 
To  tunes  of  epithalamics. 

The  sheet  tied  ever  to  thy  waist, 
How  thankful  to  be  so  embraced! 
And  see!  thy  very,  very  bands 
Are  bound  to  thee  to  bind  such  hands. 

1  Kvideiilly  of  love. 


258 


The  Rose 


Sweet,   serene,   sky-likt-   flower, 
Haste   to  adorn   the  bower; 
From   thy   lont^  cloudy   bed, 
Shoot  forth    thy  damask   liead. 

New-startled  blush   of  Flora, 
The  t^rief  of  pale  Aurora 
(Who  will  contest   no   more). 
Haste,    haste  to   strew   her  floor! 

Vermilion   ball   that 's   j^lven 
From  lip   to  lip  in   Heaven; 
Love's  couch's  coverled, 
Haste,    haste  to  make  her  bed. 

Dear  offspring  of  pleased  Venus 
And  jolly,   plump  Silenus, 
Haste,    haste  to  deck   the   hair 
Of  the  only   sweetly   fair! 

See !    rosy  is   her   bower, 
Her   floor   is   all   this  flower, 
259 


THE   ROSE 

Her  brd   a    rosy   nest 

By  a  btd  of  roses  pressed. 

But  t-arly  as  she  dresses, 
Why  fly  you   her   bright  tresses? 
Ah !    I    have   found,    T    fear, — 
Because  her  cheeks   are   near. 


e6o 


The  j^  j^ 

Grasshopper 

O  thou  ihat  swing'st  upon  the  wav'uii,^  ha\r 
Of  some  well-tilled  oaten  beard, 

Drunk  every  ni^hl  with  a  delicious  tear 
Dropped   thee  from   heaven    where  thou 
wert  reared ! 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thlnr  entire, 
That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop 
and  fly; 

And  when  thy  poppy  works  thou  dosl  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  tin-  sun  thou  wt-lcom'st 
then, 
Sport'st  in  the  gih  plaits  of  his  beams, 
And    all    these    merry    days    mak'st    merry 
men, 
Thvself,  and  melancholy  streams. 


261 


Andrew   Mar  veil 


A  Horatian  Ode 

upon  Cromwell's  ^ 

Return  from  Ireland 

The   forward   youlli   that   would  apix-ar 
Must   now   forsake  his  musis  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sin.e: 
His  numbers  languishing . 
'Tis   time   to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corselet  of  the  hall. 
So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  throui^^h  adventurous  war 
Ur^ed  his  active  star; 
And,  like  the  three-forked  lightning,  tirst 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nursl, 
Did  thorough  his  own  side 
His   fiery  way   divide; 


203 


CROMWELL  S  RETURN 

(For    't  is   all   one   to   courai^c   hi^h, 
The  emulous,    or  enoniv, 

And   with   such   to  enclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose;) 
Then  burning  through  the  air  he   went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent; 

And  Ca'sar's  head  at   last 

Did   through   his   laurels   blast. 
'T  is   madness   to   resist   or  blame 
The  force  of  angry   Heaven's   flame; 

And  if  we  would  speak   trut-, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 
Who,   from   his  private  gardens,   where 
He   lived  reserved  and  austere, 

As   if  his   highest   plot 

To  plant  the   bergamot, 
Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To   ruin   the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould. 
Though  Justice  against   Fate  complain 
And   plead   the  ancient   rights   in   vain 

(But  those  do   hold   or  break, 

As  men  are   strong  or  weak), 
Nature,   that  haleth  emptiness, 
Allows  of  penetration   less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 

Where  greater  spirits  come. 
What   field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his   were  not   the  deepest  scar? 
264 


FROM  IRELAND 

And   Hampton   shows  what    part 

He  had  of  wiser  art; 
Where,   twining'  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles    himself  might   chase 
To   Carisbrook's   narrow   case, 
That   thence  the   royal   actor  borne 
The  tragic   scaffold   might   adorn, 

While  round   the  armed  bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands; 
He   nothing  com.mon   did,   or  mean, 
Upon   that   memorable   scene, 

But    with   his   keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did   try; 
Nor  called  the  gods  with  vulgar  spite 
To   vindicate   his   helpless   right. 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 
This  was  that  memorable  hour, 
Which   first  assured   the   forced   power; 

So,    when  they  did  design 

The   Capitol's  first   line, 
A  bleeding    head,    where   they   begun. 
Did    fright  the  architects  to  run; 

And  yet  in   that  the   State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate. 
And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see   themselves   in   one  year  tamed; 

So  much   one   man   can   do, 

That   does   both  act   and  know. 
265 


CROMWELL'S  RETURN 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  thou.erh  overcome,  confessed 

How  good  he  is,   how  just, 

And  fit  for  highest  trust; 
Nor  yet  grown  stifter  with  comniMnd, 
But  still  in   the  republic's  hand 

(How  fit  he  is  to  sway, 

That  can  so  well  obey!) 
He  to  the  Common's  feet  presents 
A  kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents; 

And,  what  he  may,   forbears 

His  fame,   to  make  ft  theirs; 
And  has  his  sword  and  spoil  ungirt, 
To  lay  them  at  the  Public  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  heavy  from  the  sky. 
She,  having  killed,  no  more  doth  search, 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch; 

Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 
What  may  not  then  our  isle  presume, 
WHiile  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 

What  may  not  others  fear, 

If  thus  he  crovv^s  each  year? 
As  CfEsar,  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  a  Hanibal, 

And  to  all   states  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 
The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-coloured  mind, 
266 


FROM  IRELAND 

But,  from  his  valour  sad, 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid; 
TIappy,  if  in  [he  tufted  brake 
The  English   hunter  him   mistake, 
Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  nerir 
The  Caledonian  deer. 
But  thou,   the  war's  and  fortune's  son, 
March   indefatigably  on. 
And  for  the  last  effect, 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect; 
Beside  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 
The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A  power,   must  it  maintain 


267 


The  Picture 
of  little  T.  C. 
in  a  Prospect 
of  Flowers 


j^  j^ 


See  with  what  simplicity 
This  nyn-«ph  begins  her  golden  days! 
In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 
And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 
The    wilder     flowers,    and    gives    them 

nanii's; 
But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 

And  them  does  tell 
What  colours  best  become  them,  and  what 
smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
This  darling  of  the  gods  was  born? 
Yet   this   is   she  whose  chaster  laws 
The  wanton    Love  shall   one  day  fear, 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 
See   his   bow   broke,   and   ensigns   torn. 
Happy  who  can 
Appease   this   virtuous  enemy   of  man  ! 
268 


A    PICTURE 

O   then    let    me   in   tinir   compound 
And   parley  with  tliose  conquerinp;^   eyes, 
Ere  they  have  tried  tlieir  force  to  wound; 
Kre  with  their  ghmcing-  wheels  they  drive 
In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 
And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise: 
Let  me  be  laid, 
W'liere    1    may  see   thy  glories  from   some 
shade. 

Meantime,   whilst   every  verdant    thin^ 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 
Reform  the  errors  of  the  Spring; 
Make    that   the   tulips  may  have  share 
Of  sweetness,  seeinj^  they   are  fair. 
And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm; 
But   most  procure 
That   violets  ma)    a  longer   age  endure. 

I3ut   O  young   beauty   of  the  woods, 
Whom    Nature    courts    with    fruits    and 

flowers. 
Gather  the  flowers,   but  spare  the  buds; 
Lest  Flora,  angry  at  thy  crime 
To  kill  her  infants  in   their  prime, 
Should  quickly  make  the  example  yours; 
.\nd,  ere  we  see, 
Nip,  in  the  blossom,  all  our  hopes  in  thee. 


The  Nymph 

Complaining  ^^         j^  j^ 

the  Death  of 

her  Fawn 


The  wanton  trooper?,  ridinir  by 
Plave   shot    niy    fawn,    and    it    will  dit. 
Ung^entle    men !    they  cannot    thrive 
Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst,  alive, 
Them   any   harm,    alas !    nor  could 
Thy    death    yet    ever   do    them    g^ood. 
I  'm    sure    I    never   wished    them    ill, 
Nor   do    I    for   all    this,    nor    will. 
But    if  my    simple   prayers   may   yet 
Prevail    with    Heaven    to    forget 
Thy    murder,    I    will   join    my    tears 
Rather   than    fail.     But    O   my    fears ! 
It   cannot   die   so.     Heaven's    King- 
Keeps    register   of   everything, 
And   nothing   may   we    use    in    vain; 
Even    beasts    must    be    with   justice    slain, 
Else   men    are    made    their   deodands. 
Though    they    should    wash    their     guilty 
hands 

270 


NYMPH  AND   FAWN 

111    th'u^  warm    lile-blood    which   doth   pari 
From    thine,   and  wound  me   to  llic  heart, 
Yet  could   they  not  be  clean,   their  stain 
Is  dyed  in  such   a  purple  g^rain. 
There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world,  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Inconstant   Sylvio,    when   yet 
1    had   not    found    him   counterfeit, 
One  morning  (I    renumber  well). 
Tied  in   this   silver  chain  and  bell. 
Gave   it  to  me;    nay,   and   1    know 
What  he   said  then,    1  'm   sure    1    do: 
Said  he,  "  Ix)ok  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath   taught  a   fawn  to  hunt  his  deer!" 
But   Sylvio  soon   had   me  beguiled; 
This  waxed   tame   while  he  grew    wild, 
And  quite   regardless    of  my   smart 
Left   me   his   fawn,   but   took  my  heart. 

Thenceforth    1    set    myself  to    play 
My   solitary  time  away 
With  this;    and,   very  well   content. 
Could   so    mine    idle    life  have   spent; 
For  it  was   full   of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and   heart,   and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game;    it  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me;    how  could    1   less 
Than  love   it?     O,    I    cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth   me! 
271 


NYMPH  AND   FA  WN 

Had    it    Used    I<)^^^    I    d(j   not    know 
VVliclhtr  il   too  niijj^ht  havr  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did;    his   ^x^is  might   be 
Perhaps  as   false,  or  more,   tluin  he. 
But   I   am  sure,   for  aught   that   1 
Could  in   so  short   a  time  espy, 
Tliy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel   man. 

With   sweetest   milk  and   sugar  first 

I   it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 

It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they— 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath!  and  oft 

I   blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white-  shall   I   say? — than   my  hand. 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land! 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  tieet 
'T  was  on  those  little  silver  feet: 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
it  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race: — 
And  \\  hen  't  had  left  me  far  away 
T  would  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

27^ 


NYMPH  AND  FAWN 

To  be  a  little  wilderness: 

And  all  the  spring^-time  ol"  the  year 

It  only  loved  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies   I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise. 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes. 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed. 

Until  its  lips  e'en  seemed  to  bleed, 

And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  till, 

And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 

In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold:  - 

Had  it  lived  long,   it  would  have  been 

Lilies  without — roses  within. 

0  help!     O  help!     I  see  it  faint 
And  die  as  calmly  as  a  saint! 

See  how  it  weeps!  the  tears  do  come 
Sad,  slowly,   dropping  like  a  gum. 
So  weeps  the  wounded  balsam;  so 
The  holy  frankincense  doth  flow; 
The  brotherless  Heliades 
Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  these. 

1  in  a  golden  vial  will 

Keep  these  two  cr}'stal  tears,  and  fill 
(  B  126 )  273  T 


NYMPH  AND    FAWN 

It,   till   it  (li)tli   Dcillow,   wiili   mine, 
Then  place  il   in    Diana's  slirine. 

Now   my  sweet   fawn   is   vanished  to 

V\  liither  the  swans  and  turtles  go; 

In   fair  Klysiiiin  to  endure 

With  milk-white  lambs  and  ermines  purr 

O,  do  not  run   too  fast,   for   I 

Will   but  bespeak  thy  ^'rave,   and  die. 

First   my  unhappy  statue  shall 

Be  cut  in  marble;  and  withal 

Let  it  be  weeping  too;  but  thtn- 

The  engraver  sure  his  art  may  s[)are; 

For  I  so  truly  thee  bemoan 

That   I   shall  weep  thout^h   I   be  stone, 

Until   my  tears,   still  droppini^,   wear 

My  breast,   themselves  enf^'raving  there; 

Then  at  my  feet  shalt  thou  be  laid, 

Of  purest  alabaster  made; 

For  I   would  have  thine  image  be 

White  as  1   can,  though   not  as  thee. 


374 


Hopeless  Love        J^         J^ 

My  love  is  of  a  birth  as  rare 

As  'tis,   for  object,   strange  and  high; 

It  was  begotten  by  despair 
Upon  impossibility. 

Magnanimous  despair  alone 

Could  show  me  so  divine  a  thing, 

Where  feeble  hope  could  ne'er  have  flown 
But  vainly  flapped  its  tinsel  wing. 

And  yet   I  quickly  might  arrive 
Where  my  extended  soul  is  fixed; 

But  fate  does  iron  wedges  drive. 
And  always  crowds  itself  betwixt. 

For  fate  with  jealous  eyes  does  see 

Two  perfect  loves,   nor  lets  them  close; 

Their  union  would   her  ruin  be. 
And  her  tyrannic  power  depose. 

And  therefore  her  decrees  of  steel 
Us  as  the  distant  poles  have  placed 

275 


HOPELESS   LOVE 
(Tliougli    Lovt's    whole   wotUi   oil    us  cloth 
Not    by   th'Miisrlvos   to  he  cinbracrd, 

I'nlrss  ihf  i^idtly  luavcii   fall. 

And  earth   bonie   new   coiivul>iuii    U  .u  , 
And,   us  to  join,   the  world  should  all 

Be  eramped   into  a  planisphere. 

As  lilies,   so  loves  oblique  may  well 
Themselves  in  every  an^le  j^reet; 

But  ours,  so  truly  parallel, 

Thouj^h   infinite,   can   never  meet. 

Therefore  the  love  which  us  doth  bind, 

But  fate  so  enviously  debars. 
Is  the  conjunction  of  the  mind, 

And  opposition  of  the  stars. 


276 


The  Garden 

TRANSLATED   OUT   OK 
HIS    OWN    LATIN 

How  vainly  mtii  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,   the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  sinjjle  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid; 
While  all   the  Howers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  g^arlands  of  Repose, 

Fair  Quiet,   have   I   found  thee  here, 
And   Innocence,   thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,    I   sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men: 
Your  sacred  plants,   if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow: 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,   cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name: 

277 


THE   GARDEN 

Lillle,  alas,   tliey  know  oi    lu't'd 
How  far  ihesc  beauties  her  exceed! 
Fair  trees!  wheres'e'r  your  barks  1  wound, 
No  name  shall,  but  your  own,   he  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passions'  heat 
Love  hillier  makes  his  best  retreat; 
The  K^ods,   who  mortal   beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
Apollo  hunted   Daphn«*  so 
Only  that   she  mit^hl   laurel  i^row; 
And   I'an  did  after  Syrinx  sp-ed 
Not  as  a  nymph,   but  for  a  reed. 

What   wondrous  life  is  this  I   lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 
Stumbling-  on  melons,  as  I  pass. 
Ensnared  with  flowers,   I    fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness; 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each   kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
F'ar  other  worlds  and  other  seas; 


THE   GARDEN 

Annihlhuliii^-  all   llial 's  made 

To  a  j^Tfon  ihou^lu  in  a  jj^reen  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting-  the  hody's  vest  aside 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  docs  glide; 
There,   like  a  bird,   it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  iuippy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate: 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there: 
Two  paradises  't  were  in  one. 
To  live  in    Paradise  alone. 

How   well   the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  tiiis  dial   new! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run: 
And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How    could    such    sweet    and    wholesome 

hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 
279 


The  Fair  ^  ^ 

Singer 

To  makr  a  final  coiujufst   of  all   inc, 
Love  did  compose  bO  swftM   an  fiu'my. 
In  whom  both  beauties  to  my  death  a^ree, 
Joinint,'-  themselves  in  fatal  harmony, 
That,   while   she   with   her   eyes   my   heart 

does  bind, 
She    with    her    voice    mi^^ht    captivate    my 

mind. 

I  could  have  fled  from  one  but  singly  fair; 
My  disentang^led  soul  itself  mij^hl  save. 
Breaking  the  curled  trammels  of  her  hair; 
But  how  should  1  avoid  to  be  her  slave, 
Whose  subtle  art  invisibly  can  wreath 
My  fetters  of  the  very  air  I  breathe? 

It  had  been  easy  fighting  in  some  plain, 
Where     victory     might     hang     in      equal 

choice, 
But  all  resistance  against  her  is  vain 
W^ho     has    the    advantage    both    of    eyes 

and  voice, 
And  all  my  forces  needs  must  be  undone 
She  having  gained  both  the  wind  and  sun. 
a8o 


The  Mower  ^        ^ 

against  Gardens 

Luxurious  man,  to  brin^  liis  vice  in  use, 

Did  after  him   the  world  seduce. 
And  from  the  fields  the  tlowers  and  plants 
allure, 
Where  nature  was  most  plain  and  pure. 
He  first  inclosed  within  the  garden's  square 

A  dead  and  standing-  pool  of  air. 
And  a  more  luscious  earth  from  them  did 
knead,  . 

Which  stupefied  them  while  it  ted. 
The    pink    grew    then    as    double    as    his 
mind; 
The  nutriment  did  change  the  kind. 
With    strange   perfumes    he   did    the   roses 
laint ; 
And  flowers  themselves  were  taught  to 

paint. 
The  tulip  white  did  for  complexion  seek, 

And  learnt  to  interline  its  cheek ; 
Its  onion  root  they  then  so  high  did  hold. 

That  one  was  for  a  meadow  sold : 
Another     world     was     searched     through 
oceans  new 
To  find  the  mar^•el  of  Peru, 
281 


AGAINST  GARDENS 

And  yet  these  rarities  inli;lu  bo  allowed 

To  man,  that  sovereii;n  \W\n^  and  proud, 
Had   he   not   dealt   between   the  bark   and 
tree 

Forbidden   mixtures  there  to  sec. 
No  plant  now  knew  the  stock  from  whence 
it  came ; 

He  grafts  upon  the  wild  the  tame, 
That  the  uncertain  and  adulterate  fruit 

Might   put   the  palate  in  dispute. 
His  green  seraglio  has  its  eunuchs  too, 

Lest  any  tyrant  him  undo, 
And  in  the  cherr}'  he  does  nature  vex 

To  procreate  without  a  sex. 
'TIs    all    enforced,    the    fountain    and    the 
grot, 

While  the  sweet  fields  do  lie  forgot. 
Where  willing  nature  does  to  all  dispense 

A  wild  and  fragrant  innocence, 
And  fauns  and  fairies  do  the  meadows  till 

More  by  their  presence  than  their  skill. 
Their    statues,    polished    by   some   ancient 
hand, 

May  to  adorn  the  garden  stand. 
But,  howsoeVr  the  figures  do  excel, 

The  gods  themselves  with  us  do  dwell. 


282 


An  Epitaph  /^  ^ 

Enough;  and  leave  the  rest  to  fame; 
'Tis  to  commend  her,  but  to  name. 
Courtship  which,  living,  she  declined, 
When  dead  to  offer  were  unkind. 
Where  never  any  could  speak  ill, 
Who  would  officious  praises  spill? 
Nor  can  the  truest  wit,  or  friend. 
Without  detracting,  her  commend; 
To  say  she  lived  a  virgin  chaste. 
In  this  age  loose  and  all  unlaced. 
Nor  was,  when  vice  is  so  allowed, 
Of  virtue  or  ashamed  or  proud ; 
That  her  soul  was  on  heaven  so  bent 
No  minute  but  it  came  and  went; 
That,  ready  her  last  debt  to  pay, 
She  summed  her  life  up  every  day; 
Modest  as  morn,  as  noonday  bright. 
Gentle  as  evening,  cool  as  night: — 
'Tis  true;  but  all  too  weakly  said; 
'Tis  more  significant,  she's  dead. 


281 


The  Coronet         j^  j^ 

WIuMi  with  the  thorns  with  which   I   lonj^, 
loo  \o\\)^. 
With  many  a  piercini;^  wound, 
My  Saviour's  head  have  crowned, 
1     seek    with     garhmds     to     redress    that 
wrong, — 
Through  ever}'  garland,  every  mead, 
I     gatlier     flowers     (my    fruits     are     only 
flowers) 
Dismantling  all   the  fragrant  towers 
That  onc^  adorned  my  shepherdess's  head; 
And  now  when  I  have  summed  up  all  my 
store. 
Thinking  (so  I   myself  deceive) 
So  rich  a  chaplet  thence  to  weave 
As  never  yet  the  King  of  Glory  wore, 
Alas!    I  find  the  Serpent  old. 
Twining  in  his  speckled  breast, 
About  the  flowers  himself  does  fold. 
With  wreaths  of  fame  and  interest. 
Ah,  foolish  man  that  would'st  debase  with 

them, 
And  mortal  glory,   Heaven's  diadem  ! 
284 


THE  CORONET 

But   Thuu   who  only  could'bt    ihc   Serpent 

tame, 
Either  his  slippery  knots  at  once  untie, 
And  disentangle  all  his  winding  snare, 
Or  shelter  too  with  him  my  curious  frame, 
And  let  these  wither  so  that  he  may  die. 
Though  set  with  skill  and  chosen  out  with 

care, 
That  they,  while  Thou  on  both  our  spoils 

dost  tread, 
May  crown  Thy  feet  that  could  not  crown 

Thy  head. 


As 


Henry  Vaughan 


The  Dawning  J^  j^ 

Ah!    what   time   wilt   Thou  come?     When 

shall  that  cry, 
"The  Bridegroom  's  cominj^!"  fill  the  sky? 
Shall  it   in  the  evening  run, 
When  our  words  and  works  are  done? 
Or  will  Thy  all-surprising  light 

Break  at  midnight. 
When  either  sleep  or  some  dark  pleasure 
Possesseth  mad  man  without  measure? 
Or  shall   these  early,  fragrant  hours 

Unlock  Thy  bowers? 
And  with  their  blush  of  light  descry 
Thy  locks  crowned  with  eternity? 
Indeed  it  is  the  only  time 
That  with  Thy  glory  best  doth  chime  : 
All   now  are  stirring,  every  field 

Full  hymns  doth  yield; 
The  whole  creation  shakes  off  night, 
And  for  Thy  shadow  looks  the  light; 
287 


THE  DAWNING 

Stars  now    \anish  without   luiinber, 

Sleepy  planets  set  and  slutnber, 

The   pursy  clouds  disband  and  scatter, 

All  expect  some  sudden   matter; 

Not  one  beam   triumphs,  but   from   far 

That  morning-  star. 
O  at  what  time  soever  Thou, 
Unknown  to  us,  the  heavens  wilt  bow, 
And,  with  Thy  angels  in  the  van, 
Descend  to  judge  poor  careless  man. 
Grant   I   may  not  like  puddle  lie 
In  a  corrupt  security, 
Where,  if  a  traveller  water  crave, 
He  finds  it  dead,  and  in  a  grave; 
But  as  this  restless  vocal  spring 
All  day  and  night  doth  run  and  sing, 
And,  though  here  born,  yet  is  acquainted 
Elsewhere,  and  flowing  keeps  untainted; 
So  let  me  all  my  busy  age 
In  Thy  free  services  engage; 
And  though — while  here — of  force  I  must 
Have  commerce  sometimes  with  poor  dust, 
And  in  my  flesh,  though  vile  and  low, 
As  this  doth  in  her  channel  flow. 
Yet  let  my  course,  my  aim,  my  love, 
And  chief  acquaintance  be  above ; 
So  when  that  day  and  hour  shall  come, 
In  which  Thy  Self  will  be  the  sun. 
Thou  'It  find  me  dressed  and  on  my  way, 
Watching  the  break  of  Thy  great  day. 
288 


Childhood  j^  j^ 

I  cannot  reach  it ;    and  my  striving  eye 
Dazzles  at  it,  as  at  eternity. 

Were  now  that  chronicle  alive, 
Those  white  designs  which  children  drive, 
And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour, 
With  their  content  too  in  my  power, 
Quickly  would  I  make  my  path  even, 
And  by  mere  playing  go  to  heaven. 

Why  should  men  love 
A  wolf,  more  than  a  lamb  or  dove? 
Or  choose  hell-fire  and  brimstone  streams 
Before  bright  stars  and  God's  own  beams? 
W^ho  kisseth  thorns  will  hurt  his  face, 
But  flowers  do  both  refresh  and  grace; 
And  sweetly  living — fie  on  men  ! — 
Are,  when  dead,  medicinal  then ; 
If  seeing  much  should  make  staid  eyes. 
And  long  experience  should  make  wise; 
Since  all  that  age  doth  teach  is  ill, 
Why  should  I  not  love  childhood  still? 
( B 126 )  289  U 


CHILDHOOD 

Why,  if  1   si^e  a  rock  or  shelf, 
Shall   I   from  thence  cast  down  myself? 
Or  by  complying  with  the  world, 
From  the  same  precipice  be  hurled? 
Those  observations  are  but  foul, 
Which  make  me  wise  to  lose  my  soul. 

And  yet  the  practice  worldlings  call 
Business,  and  weighty  action  all, 
Checking  the  poor  child  for  his  play, 
But  gravely  cast  themselves  away. 

Dear,  harmless  age!  the  short,  swift  span 
Where  weeping  Virtue  parts  with  man ; 
Where  love  without  lust  dwells,  and  bends 
What  way  we  please  without  self-ends. 

An  age  of  mysteries !  which  he 
Must  live  twice  that  would  God's  face  see; 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play; 
Angels !    which  foul  men  drive  away. 

How  do  I  study  now,  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  e'er  I  studied  man, 
And  only  see  through  a  long  night 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light ! 
O  for  thy  centre  and  mid-day ! 
For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  wav! 


290 


Corruption  j^  j^ 

Sure  it  was  so.     iMan  in  those  early  days 

Was  not  all  stone  and  earth  ; 
He  shined  a  little,  and  by  those  weak  rays 

Had  some  glimpse  of  his  birth. 
He  saw  heaven   o'er  his  head,  and  knew 
from  whence 
He  came,  condemned,  hither; 
And,  as  first-love  draws  strongest,  so  from 
hence 
His  mind  sure  progressed  thither. 
Things  here  were  strange  unto  him ;  sweat 
and  till ; 
All  was  a  thorn  or  weed ; 
Nor  did  those  last,  but — like  himself — died 
still 
As  soon  as  they  did  seed ; 
They  seemed  to  quarrel  with  him ;  for  that 
act, 
That  fell  him,  foiled  them  all; 
He  drew  the  curse   upon  the   world,   and 
cracked 
The  whole  frame  with  his  fall. 
This  made  him  long  for  home,  as  loth  to  stay 
With  murmurers  and  foes ; 
291 


CORRUPTION 

He  sighed  for  Eden,  and  uould  often  say, 
"Ah!  what  bright  days  were  those!" 
Nor  was  heaven  cold  unto  him ;  for  eacli 
day 
The  valley  or  the  mountain 
Afforded  visits,  and  still   Paradise  lay 
In  some  green  shade  or  fountain. 
Angels  lay  leaguer  here;    each   bush,  and 
cell. 
Each  oak  and  highway  knew  them  : 
Walk  but  the  fields,  or  sit  down  at  some 
well. 
And  he  was  sure  to  view  them. 
Almighty    Love!    where    art    Thou    now? 
mad  man 
Sits  down  and  freezeth  on ; 
He  raves,  and  swears  to  stir  nor  fire,  nor 
fan. 
But  bids  the  thread  be  spun. 
1  see  Thy  curtains  are  close-drawn ;    Thy 
bow 
Looks  dim,  too,  in  the  cloud; 
Sin  triumphs  still,  and  man  is  sunk  below 

The  centre,  and  his  sliroud. 
All 's  in  deep  sleep  and  night :  thick  dark- 
ness lies 
And  hatcheth  o'er  Thy  people  - 
But    hark!    what    trumpet's    that?    what 
angel  cries 
"Arise!   thrust  in  Thy  sickle"? 
292 


The  Night  4^  J^ 

Through  that  pure  virghi  shrine, 
That  sacred  veil  drawn  o'er  Thy  glorious 

noon, 
That  men  might  look  and  live,  as  glow- 
worms shine, 

And  face  the  moon  : 
Wise  Nicodemus  saw  such  light 
As  made  him  know  his  God  by  night. 

Most  blest  believer  he! 
Who  in  that  land  of  darkness  and   blind 

eyes 
Thy  long-expected  healing  wings  could  see 
When  Thou  didst  rise! 
And,  what  can  never  more  be  done. 
Did  at  midnight  speak  with  the  Sun  ! 


O,  who  will  tell  me  where 
He   found   Thee   at   that   dead   and   silent 

hour? 
What  hallowed  solitary  ground  did  bear 
So  rare  a  flower, 
Within  whose  sacred  leaves  did  lie 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity? 
293 


THE  NIGHT 

No  mercy-seat  of  gold, 
No    dead    and    dusty    cherub    nor    carved 

stone, 
But   His   own    living-   works  did    my    Lord 
hold 

And  lodge  alone; 
Where  trees  and   herbs  did    watch, 

and  peep, 
And    wonder,    while    the    Jews    did 
sleep. 

Dear  night !    this  world's  defeat ; 
The  stop  to  busy  fools;  care's  check  and 

curb  ; 
The  day  of  spirits ;  my  soul's  calm  retreat 
Which  none  disturb ! 
Christ's    progress,    and    his    prayer- 
time  ; 
The  hours   to  wliich    high    Heaven 
doth  chime. 

God's  silent,  searching  flight ; 
When  my  Lord's  head  is  filled  with  dew, 

and  all 
His  locks  are  wet  w^ith  the  clear  drops  of 
night ; 

His  still,  soft  call ; 
His  knocking-time ;  the  soul's  dumb 

watch, 
When  spirits  their  fair  kindred  catch. 
294 


THE  NIGHT 

Were  my  loud,  evil  days 
Calm  and  unhaunted  as  in  thy  dark  tent, 
Whose   peace   but    by  some  angel's   winj^ 
or  voice 

Is  seldom  rent ; 
Then  I  in  heaven  all  the  long  year 
Would  keep,  and  never  wander  here. 

But  living  where  the  sun 
Doth  all  things  wake,  and  where  all  mix 

and  tire 
Themselves  and  others,  I  consent  and  run 
To  every  mire ; 
And  by  this  world's  ill-guiding  light, 
Err  more  than  I  can  do  by  night. 

There  is  in  God — some  say — 
A    deep    but    dazzling    darkness ;    as    men 

here 
Say  it  is  late  and  dusky,  because  they 
See  not  all  clear. 
O  for  that  night !  where   1  in  Him 
Might  live  invisible  and  dim  ! 


295 


The  Eclipse  J^  J^ 

Whither,  O  whither  didst  Thou  fly, 
When   I  did  grieve  Thine  holy  eye? 
When  Thou  didst  mourn  to  see  me  lost, 
And  all  Thy  care  and  counsels  crossed? 
O  do  not  grieve,  where'er  Thou  art ! 
Thy  grief  is  an  undoing  smart, 
Which  doth  not  only  pain,   but  break 
My  heart,  and  makes  me  blush  to  speak. 
Thy  anger  I  could  kiss,  and  will ; 
But  O  Thy  grief.  Thy  grief,  doth  kill ! 


296 


The  Retreat  J^  ^ 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I 
Shine'd  in  my  angel  infancy! 
Before   I   understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space. 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity; 
Before  1  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense; 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots   of  everlastingness. 
O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
297 


THE   RETREAT 

That  I  might  once  more  reach  tliat  plain 
Where  first   I   left  my  j^Iorious  train  ; 
From  whence  the  enlij^htened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm-trees. 
But  ah !  my  soul   with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion   love, 
But   I   by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And,   when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn. 
In  that  state  I  came,   return. 


298 


The  World  ^  ^ 

of  Light  -^  ^ 


They  are  all  gone  into  llie  world  of  light, 

And  I   alone  sit  lingering  here; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is 
drest, 

After  the  sun's  remove. 

1  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory. 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  : 
My  days,   which  are  at  best  but  dull  and 
hoary, 

Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope!  and  high   Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above! 
These    are    your    walks,    and     you    have 
shewed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 
299 


THE    WORLD    OF  LIGHT 

Dear,   beauteous    Death !    llie  jewel  of  the 
just, 
Shining  no  where,   but  In  the  dark; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark! 

He    that    hath    fuuiul    some    tledj^t'd    bird's 
nest  may  know, 
At  first  sight,   if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But   what   fair   well    or  grove   he   sings   in 
now, 

That  is  to  him   unknown. 

And    yet,    as    Angels     in     some    brighter 
dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep: 
So  some  strange  thoughts   transcend  our 
wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must    needs  burn 
there ; 
But    when    the    hand    that    locked    her    up 
gives  room, 

She  '11  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 
Created  glories  under  Thee! 
300 


THE    WORLD    OF  LIGHT 

Resume    Thy    spirit     from     thi^    uorld    of 
thrall  ' 

Into  tnio  liberty. 

Either    disperse    these    mists,    which     blot 
and  fill 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


301 


Sweet  Peace  j^  j^ 

My  soul,   there  is  a  country 

Far  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  tiiy  gracious   Friend, 

And — O  my  soul,  awake! — 
Did  in  pure  love  descend 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  Peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges; 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  One  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  life,  thy  cure. 


302 


The  Timber  J^  ^ 

Sure,  thuu  didst  flourish  once  I   and  many 
springs, 
Many     briglit     mornings,     much     dew, 
many  showers 
Passed  o'er  thy  head ;    many  light  hearts 
and   wings. 
Which    now    are    dead,    lodged    in    thy 
living  bowers. 

And  still  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies; 

Fresh  groves  grow  up,  and  their  green 

branches  shoot 

Towards  the  old  and  still  enduring  skies, 

While    the    low    violet    thrives    at    their 

root. 

But   thou  beneath  the  sad  and   heavy  line 
Of  death  dost  waste,  all  senseless,  cold, 
and  dark ; 
Where   not   so    much   as  dreams  of  light 
may  shine, 
Nor  any  thought  of  greenness,  leaf,  or 
bark. 

303 


THE   TIMBER 

And  yet,— as  it  iomt  deep  hate  and  dissent, 
Bred  in  thy  growth  betwixt  liigh  winds 
and  thee, 
Were  still  alive — tliou  dost  great   storms 
resent 
Before  thtv  come,  and  kno\\  'st  how  near 
they  be. 

P^lse  all   at    rest   thou    liest,   and    the   tierce 
breath 
Of  tempests    can    no    more    disturb    thy 
ease ; 
But     this    thy    strange    resentment    after 
death 
Means   only  those  who   brokt — in   life — 
thy  peace. 


304 


John  Dryden 


Ode 


TO   THE    PIOUS    MEMORY 

OF   THE   ACCOMPLISHED  ^^ 

YOUNG   LADY,    MRS.    ANNE  ^^  ^^ 

KILLIGREW,    EXCELLENT    IN 

THE   TWO   SISTER    ARTS   OK 

POESY    AND    PATNTING 

Thou    youngest    virgin  -  daughter    of    the 

skies, 

Made  in  the  labt  promotion  of  the  blest; 

Whose  palms,  new-plucked  from  paradise, 

In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise, 

Rich    with    immortal   green,    above   the 

rest: 

Whether,    adopted   to   some   neighbouring 

star, 
Thou    roll'st    above   us   in   thy   wandering 
race. 
Or  in  procession  fixed  and  regular 
Moved  with  the  heaven's  majestic  pace, 
Or  called  to  more  superior  bliss, 

{  B  126  )  305  ^ 


ODE    TO 

Tliou    trrad'st     with     >rraphiins    the     vast 
abyss : 

Whatever  happy  region  be  thy  place, 

Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space; 

Thou    wilt    have    time   enough    for   hymns 
divine, 

Since  heaven's  eternal  yrar  is  liiiiu-. 

Hear,  then,  a  mortal  must*  thy  praise  re- 
hearse. 
In  no  ignoble  verse, 

But    such   as    thy  own    voire   did    practise 
here, 

When  thy  first-fruits  of  poesy  were  given 

To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there; 
While  yet  a  young  probationer 
And  candidate  of  heaven. 

if  by  traduction  came  thy  mind, 
Our  wonder  is  the  less  to  find 
A    soul    so    charming    from    a    stock    so 

good; 
Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood: 
So  wert  thou  born   into  the  tuneful  strain 
(An  early,  rich  and  inexhausted  vein). 

But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 
Was  formed  at  first  with  myriads  more. 

It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll 
Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore, 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,  which  once  it 
was  before. 

306 


MRS.    ANNE  KILLIGREW 

If  so,    tluri   cease  thy  fli.^'ht,   ()  hea\ en- 
born  mind! 
Tliou  hast  no  dross  to  purine  from  tliy  ricli 
ore ; 
Nor  can  thy  soul  a  fairer  mansion  find 
Than  was  the  beauteous   frame   she  left 
behind: 
Return,    to    Hi!    or   mend   ihe  choir  of  thy 
celestial  kind. 

May  we  presume  to  say  that,  at  thy  birth, 
New  joy  was  sprung^  in  heaven  as  well  as 

here  on  earth? 
For  sure  the  milder  planets  did  combine 
On  thy  auspicious  horoscope  to  shine, 
And  e\en  the  most  malicious  were  in  trine. 
Thy  brother  angels  at  thy  birth 

Strung^  each  his  lyre,  and  tuned  it  high, 
That  all  the  people  of  the  sky 
Might  know  a  poetess  was  born  on  earth; 
And  then,  if  ever,  mortal  ears 
Had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
And  if  no  clustering  swarm  of  bees 
On  thy  sweet  mouth  distilled  their  golden 
dew, 
'T  was  that  such  vulgar  miracles 
Heaven  had  not  leisure  to  renew: 
For  all  the  best  fraternity  of  love 
Solemnized  there  thy  birth,  and  kept  thy 
holiday  above. 

307 


ODE   TO 

O  ^'raclous  (jod!   how  tar  have  we 
PrDlaiu'd  Tin   hcutnly  k''^  ^^  poesy! 
Made  prostitute   and    protlij^ale  the   Muse, 
Debased  to  each  obscene  and  impious  use, 
Whose  harmony  was  first  ordained  above, 
Vox  lont;"ues   of  aiij^els   and    tor  hvmns   of 

love! 
()     wretched    w<!     win     were    ue     liurii<d 
down 
This  lubric  and  adulteratt'  a^e 
(Nay,  added   fat  pollutions  of  our  own), 
To   increase   the    steaminjjf  ordures   of 
the  stage? 
What  can  we  say  to  excuse  our  second  fail? 
Let  this  thy  Vestal,  Heaven,  atone  for  all! 
Her  Arethusan  stream  remains  unsoiled, 
I'nmixed  with   foreif:;^n   filth  and  undefiled; 
Her  wit  was  more  than  man,  her  innocence 

a  child. 
Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none, 
For  Nature  did  that  want  supply: 
So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own. 

She  might  our  boasted  stores  def\  : 
Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn 
That  it  seemed  borrowed,  where  'twas  only 

born. 
Her  morals,  too,  were  in  her  bosom  bred. 

By  great  examples  daily  fed. 
What  in  the  best  of  books,  her  father's  life, 
she  read. 

cio8 


MRS.    ANNE  KILLIGREW 

And    lo    be    read    luTself   she    need    not 

fear; 
Each  test  and  every  li^'^lu  her  muse  will 

hi'ar, 
Though    Epictetus    with    his    lamp  were 

there. 
Even  love  (for  love  sometimes  her  muse 

expressed) 
Was    but    a    lambent    flame    which    played 

about  her  breast, 
LijEfht    as    the    vapours    of  a    morniiitJ^ 

dream; 
So  cold  herself,  while  she  such  warmth 

expressed, 
'T  was  Cupid  bathing^  in  Diana's  stream. 

When    in    mid-air   the   golden    trump  shall 
sound, 
To  raise  the  nations  underground; 
When  in  the  valley  of  Jehosophat 
The  judging  God  shall   close  the  book  of 
Fate, 
And  there  the  last  assizes  keep 
For  those  who  wake  and  those   who 

sleep; 
When  rattling  bones  together  fly 
From   the  four  quarters  of  the  sky; 
When  sinews  o'er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
Those  clothed  with  flesh,  and  life  inspires 
the  dead; 

309 


MRS,    ANNE  KILLIGREW 

Thr  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound, 
And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  i)ound, 
For    they    are    covered    with    ih<'    lij,(htest 

i^iDund; 
And   straij;ht    with    inborn    vi.^oiir,    on    the 

Like  moinilinj^^  larks,  to  th.-  inw  mornin.i,^ 

sini;-. 
There  thou,    ^weet  saint,   before  the  choir 

shalt  i^o. 
As  harbing^er  of  heaven,  the  way  to  show. 
The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast   learned 

below. 


310 


Sir  George  Etherege 


Song  j^  j^ 

Ladies,  though  to  your  conquering  eyes 
Love  owes  his  chiefest  victories, 
And  borrows  those  bright  arms  from  you 
With  which  he  does  the  world  subdue, 
Yet  you  yourselves  are  not  above 
The  empire  nor  the  griefs  of  love. 
Then  rack  not  lovers  with  disdain, 
Lest  love  on  you  revenge  their  pain; 
You  are  not  free  because  you  're  fair, 
The  Boy  did  not  his  Mother  spare; 
Beauty  's  but  an  offensive  dart, 
It  is  not  armour  for  the  heart. 


3TI 


Thomas  Traherne 


The 

Salutation  ^  ^ 

These  little  limbs, 
These  eyes  and  hands  which  here  I  find, 
These   rosy  cheeks  wherewitli   my  life   be- 
gins, 
Where  have  ye  been?  behind 
What    curtain    were    ye    from    me    hid    so 

long? 
Where   was,    in  what  abyss,  my   speaking 
tongue? 

When  silent  I 

So  many  thousand,  thousand  years 
Beneath   the  dust  did  in  a  chaos  lie, 

How   could    I   smiles   or  tears, 
Or  lips  or  hands  or  eyes  or  ears  perceive? 
Welcome  ye  treasures  which  I  now  receive! 

I,  that  so  long 
Was   nothing   from   eternity, 
313 


THE  SALUTATION 

Did  little  think  such  joys  as  ear  or  tongue 

To  celebrate  or  see: 
Such  sounds  to  hear,  such  hands  to  feel, 

such  feet, 
Beneath   the   skies   on    such  a   ground  to 

meet. 

New  burnisht  joys! 
Which  yellow  gold  and  pearl  excel ! 
Such    sacred    treasures    are    the    limbs    in 
boys, 
In  which  a  soul  doth  dwell; 
Their  organised  joints  and  azure  veins 
More   wealth   include   than   all    the   world 
contains. 

From  dust   I   rise, 
And  out  of  nothing   now  awake; 
These  brighter  regions  which  salute  mine 
eyes, 
A   gift  from  God   1   take. 
The  earth,  the  seas,  the  light,  the  day,  the 

skies. 
The  sun   and   stars   are   mine;    if  those   I 
prize. 

Long  time  before 
I  in   my  mother's  womb  was  born, 
A  God  preparing  did  this   glorious   store, 
The  world,  for  me  adorn. 

3H 


THE  SALUTATION 

Into  this  Eden  so  divine  and  fair, 
So  wide  and  brig-ht,   I   come  His  son  and 
heir. 

A  stranger  here 
Strange  things  doth  meet,  strange  glories 
see; 
Strange  treasures  lodg'd  in  this  fair  world 
appear, 
Strange  all,  and  new  to  me; 
But  that  they  mine  should  be,  who  nothing 

was, 
This   strangest   is   of  all,    yet   brought   to 
pass. 


31S 


Wonder  j^  j^/ 

How   llkf  ail   An^ol   came   I    down! 

How  brii^ht  are  al!  thing's  here! 

When  first  among  His  works  1  did  appear 

O  how   tlieir  gk)ry  me  did  crown  ! 
Tho  world   resemhlfd   His  Kternity, 
In   wliich  my  soul  did   walk; 
And  every  thing  that    I   did  see 
Did  with   me  talk. 

The  skies    in    tlieir   magnificence, 
The    lively,    lovely   air, 
Oh  how  divine,  how  soft,  how  sweet,  how 
lair! 
The  stars  did  entertain    my  sense. 
And  all  the  works  of  God,  so  bright  and 
pure. 
So  rich  and  great  did  seem. 
As  if  they  ever  must  endure 
In  my  esteem. 

A  native  health  and  innocence 
Within  my  bones  did  giow, 
And    while    my    God    did    all    His    glories 
show, 

316 


WONDER 

1   felt   a   rigour   in    my   sense 
That  was  all   Spirit.      1   within   did   flow 
With  seas  of  life,  like  wine; 
I   nothing  in  the  world  did  know 
But  'twas  divine. 

Harsh    ragged  objects  were  concealed, 
Oppressions,  tears,  and  cries, 
Sins,  griefs,  complaints,  dissensions,  weep- 
ing eyes, 
Were  hid,  and   only  things   revealed 
Which    heavenly    Spirits    and    the    Angels 
prize. 
The  state  ot  Innocence 
And  bliss,  not  trades  and  poverties. 
Did  fill  my  sense. 

The    streets    were    paved    with     golden 
stones, 
The  boys  and  girls  were  mine. 
Oh,  how  did  all  their  lovely  faces  shme! 

The  sons  ot  men  were  holy  ones. 
In  jov  and  beauty  they  appeared  to  me. 
And  every  thing  which  here  I  found, 
While  like  an  angel  I   did    see, 
Adorned   the    ground. 

Rich  diamond  and  pearl  and  gold 
In  every  place  was  seen; 
i^7 


WONDER 

Rare  splendours,  yellow,  blue,   red,   white 
and  green, 
Mine   eyes   did    everywhere   behold. 
Great  Wonders  clothed  with  glory  did  ap- 
pear; 
Amazement  was  my  bliss. 
That  and  my  wealth  was  everywhere — 
No  joy  to  this ! 

Cursed  and  devised  proprieties, 
With    envy,    avarice 
And   fraud,    those    fiends    that    spoil   even 
Paradise, 
Flew  from  the  splendours  of  mine  eyes. 
And  so  did  hedges,  ditches,  limits,  bounds; 
I  dreamed  not  of  those; 
But  wandered  over  all  men's  grounds, 
And  found  repose. 

Proprieties    themselves   were   mine. 
And  hedges  ornaments; 
Walls,   boxes,   coffers,   and  their  rich  con- 
tents 
Did  not  divide  m}-  joys,  but  all  combine. 
Clothes,  ribbons,  jewels,  laces,  I  esteemed, 
My  joys  by  others  worn; 
For  me  they  all  to  wear  them  seemed. 
When   I  was  born. 


318 


News  J^  J^ 

News  from  a  foreign  country  came 

As    if    my    treasure    and    my    wealth    lay 

there; 
So  much  it  did  my  heart  inflame, 
'Twas   wont   to   call    my   Soul    into   mine 

ear; 
Which  thither  went  to  meet 
The  approaching  sweet, 
And  on  the  threshold  stood 
To  entertain  the  unknown  Good. 
It  hover'd  there 
As  if  't  would  leave  mine  ear. 
And  was  so  eager  to  embrace 
The  joyful  tidings  as  they  came, 
'T  would  almost  leave  its  dwelling  place 
To  entertain  that  same. 

As  if  the  tidings  were  the  things, 

My     very    joys     themselves,     my     foreign 

treasure — 
Or  else  did  bear  them  on  their  wings— 
With    so    much    joy    they  came,   with    so 

much  pleasure. 

319 


NEWS 

My  Soul  stood  aL  that  gate 

To  recreate 

Itself  with  bliss;  and  to 

Be  pleased  with  speed,  a  fuller  view 

It   fain  would   take, 

Yet  journeys  back  would  make 

Unto  my  heart,  as  if  'twould  fain 

Go  out  to  meet,  yet  stay  within 

To  fit  a  place  to  entertain 

And  bring-  the  tidings  in. 

VVIiat  sacred  instinct  did   Inspire 

M}-    soul    in    childhood    with    a    hope    so 

strong? 
What  secret  force  moved  my  desire 
To   expect    my  joys   beyond    the   seas,    so 

young? 
Felicity  I  knew 
Was  out  of  view, 
And  being  here  alone, 
I  saw  that  happiness  was  gone 
From  me!     For  this 
I  thirsted  absent  bliss. 
And  thought  that  sure  beyond  the  seas, 
Or  else  in  something  near  at  hand 
I  knew  not  yet — since  naught  did  please 
I  knew — my  bliss  did  stand. 

But  little  did  the  infant  dream 
That  all  the  treasures  of  the  world  were  by: 
320 


NEWS 

And  that  himsell  was  so  the  cream 

And  crown  of  all  whicli  round  about  did 

lie. 
Yet  thus  it  was;  the  Gem, 
The  Diadem, 
The  Ring  enclosing"  all 
That  stood  upon  this  earthly  ball; 
The  Heavenly  eye, 
Much   wider  than  the  sky, 
Wherein  they  all  included  were ; 
The  glorious  Soul,  that  was  the  King 
Made  to  possess  them,  did  appear 
A  small  and  little  thing! 


B  126  )  321 


Sir  Charles   Sedley 


To  Chloris  ^^  -^ 

Ah  Chloris!  that  I   now  could  sit 

As  unconcerned  as  when 
Your  Infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  pleasure  nor  no  pain. 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  growing  fire 

Must  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  the  mine; 
Age  from  no  face  took  more  aw^ay 

Than  youth  concealed  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
Fond  love  as  unperceived  did  fly 

And  in  my  bosom  rest. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 
And  Cupid  in  my  heart, 
323 


TO    CHLORIS 

Still  as  his  niotlirr  favoured  you, 
Threw  a  more  flaming'  dart. 

Each  i^luried  in  their  wanton  part; 
To  make  a  lover,   he 

Employed  the  utmost  of  his  art— 
To  make  a  beauty,  she. 


3'-i4 


To  Celia  J^  j^ 

Not,  Celia,  that  1  juster  am. 

Or  better  than  the  rest; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them, 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  1  find — 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should   1  seek  further  store. 

And  still  make  love  anew? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true. 


32s 


Aphera  Behn 


Song,  from  ^  ^ 

Abdelazar 

Love  in   fantastic  triumph  sat, 

Whilst     bleeding      hearts     around     him 
flowed, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create; 

And  strange  tyrannic  power  he  showed. 
F'rom  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires, 

Which  round  about  in  sport  he  hurled ; 
But  't  was  from  mine  he  took  desires 

Enough  to  undo  the  amorous  world. 

From  me  he  look  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty; 
From  me  his  languishment  and  fears. 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee. 
Thus  thou  and  I  the  god  have  armed. 

And  set  him  up  a  deity; 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harmed, 

Whilst  thine  the  victor  is,  and  free. 
327 


The  Earl  of  Rochester 


An  Apology  ^  ^ 

All  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more; 

The  flying  hours  are  gone,^ 
Like  transitory  dreams  given  o'er, 
Whose  images  are  kept  in  store 

By  memory  alone. 

The  time  that  is  to  come  is  not; 

How  can  it  then  be  mine? 
The  present  moment's  all  my  lot; 
And  that,  as  fast  as  it  is  got, 

PhilHs,  is  only  thine. 

Then  talk  not  of  inconstancy, 

False  hearts  and  broken  vows; 

If  I  by  miracle  can  be 

This  live-long  minute  true  to  thee, 
'Tis  all  that  Heaven  allows. 


329 


The  Duke  of  Buckingham 


On  One  who 
died,  Discovering 
her  Kindness 


Some  vex  their  souls  with  jealous  pain 
While  others  sigh  for  cold  disdain. 
Love's  various  slaves  we  daily  see, 
Yet  happy  all  compared  with  mc. 

Of  all  mankind   I   loved  the  best 
A  nymph  so  far  above  the  rest 
That  we  outshined  the  blest  above 
In  beauty  she,  as  I  in  love. 

And  therefore  they,   who  could  not  bear 
To  be  outdone  by  mortals  here, 
Among-  themselves  have  placed  her  now 
And  left  me  wretched  here  below. 
331 


ON  ONE    WHO  DIED 

All  other  fate  1  could  have  borne, 
And  even  endured  her  very  scorn; 
But  oh  thus  all  at  once  to  find 
That  dread  account  I — both  dead  and  kind- 
What  heart  can  hold?     If  yet  1  live, 
'Tis  but  to  show  how  much  I  grieve. 


THE   END 


332 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  isJDUE  on  the  h»st  date  stamped  below. 


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